Behind Blue Eyes
by kausingkayn
Summary: Ianto Jones leads a very meticulous and secretive life. But when his latest victim becomes the Cardiff police's big case, can he stay in the shadows? Not if his boyfriend, Jack Harkness, has anything to say about it. *Sequel to "A Day In The Life"
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Yes, I have several fics that are currently in the works. Yes, I shall get around to them (eventually). But this has taken over my brain, so I have to post it. This is the sequel to my oneshot, A Day In The Life, and continues to follow our dashing serial killer and his equally charming boyfriend through lots of fun. Yummy. ^_^ This chapter is dedicated to Jooles34, cause she is the one who was so enthusiastic about this. ^_^ Special thanks to all of my reviewers and silent stalkers ahead of time. I will be posting new chapters every tuesday, one day after uploading them onto my LiveJournal. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or Doctor Who - nor do I own Ianto's homicidal tendencies - those are Adam's.**

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He felt the body go limp underneath his grip, and slowly – softly, Ianto allowed himself to relax, a genuine smile creeping onto his pale thin lips. He stood up from where he had been sitting on the cold cement floor and stretched – he didn't enjoy staying in a position like that for any extended amount of time. It wrecked havoc on his calves, and his arm muscles burned from the extra strain that he had to put on them. He gave his muscles plenty of time to regain whatever oxygen or blood they had lost from the uncomfortable position, then walked the two steps it took to reach the chair where his little black book was sitting, looking to all of the world like an innocent little diary. Ianto opened it and, turning to the last written-on page, wrote down the numbers that were so boldly stated on his stopwatch. His pen completed the task in several short, quick strokes.

The book went out of sight, into the duffel bag that Ianto always brought with him for tasks such as this one. He glanced back at the cooling body that sat slumped lifeless on the other metal chair, and allowed the corner of his mouth to slip from its smile. The man had a record time – the longest that any of them had struggled. He had even managed to let out a strangled scream before the end had come. At that thought, Ianto gently pressed his side, where one of his ribs had been bruised by the man's flailing elbow. It would be fairly easy to cover up as long as no one bumped into him. Jack would be the only problem, and Ianto could lie to the man easily – there was a lot of dangerous equipment used in gyms, and statistics show that the more times you visit a gym and expose yourself to said dangerous equipment, the greater the percent chance of one getting physically harmed by the equipment. Jack would buy it – he always bought Ianto's lies.

The loud sound of thunder quickly brought Ianto out of his post-kill high. He reached the front door of the abandoned warehouse and poked his head out, only to withdraw it back into the building moments later, a curse on the tip of his tongue.

"Bloody weathermen." He mumbled, the comment directed to the cooling corpse. Naturally, he got no reply.

It really was a problem, the weather. The rain was coming down so hard that Ianto could barely see a foot in front of him when he had stuck his head out for a glimpse. No visibility meant that it would be difficult to make sure that the hogs had completely taken care of the evidence – it also meant he would have to come up with a reason for being completely soaked through when the walk from the gym to the car garage where he parked was completely protected from the rain. Not to mention the addition of having to drive from the middle of nowhere to the junk yard at ten miles an hour, then locating his car through the rain and getting home before it got to the point where Jack would worry.

Ianto sighed and ran his hand through his hair before placing both of them nervously on his hips. He glared at the corpse. "You're a pain in the arse, you know?"

He closed his eyes then, and counted to twenty. It was a trick that he learned a long time ago, back when he was a little child. He found that when faced with a grim and potentially harmful situation, the best way to combat it was to close oneself off from the world, and count to twenty. Twenty was a good number – not as short as ten, but not too long to the point where one would forget why they were counting in the first place.

He hit that magic number, and opened his eyes, his brain sharp and mind calm. He would get through this – he always did. First thing was to take care of his personal items. He made sure that everything of his was in the duffel bag, then took a mental inventory to make sure. Once that was squared away, he moved to his latest artwork.

Mike Lyndon. Nice guy, on the outside. Volunteer for a non-profit organization that helped with sick kids in hospitals. Little did anyone know that his reason behind throwing his Master's Degree in psychology away to work for next-to-nothing was because of the murder he had committed. On April 5 of 2006, Mike had taken his drunken ramblings a step too far and had beaten to death his three-year-old son. His wife, Beth, denied that fact until she drank herself into the grave two years later. Mike had spent the two years since then repenting, having supposedly "found god" and worked for the exact thing that he had destroyed – children.

Of course, Ianto knew the man hadn't really changed – because he knew that people couldn't change. And he also knew that if there was a god, he certainly didn't care enough about individual people to give a shit about whether a little boy died before his time. The man had been a perfect target – no relatives, nobody to care for him. No one to look for him when he was gone. And it would have been one of Ianto's cleanest procedures as well.

If it wasn't for the bloody storm.

He leaned down in front of the chair and slowly, methodically, untied Mike's feet and hands from the chair. Then Ianto took the tie that had been the death of his and retied it, making sure it was perfectly straight around his neck. He hadn't had to use one of his own – Mike had been kind enough to already wear one.

Once he was untied, Ianto picked the man up, and, grunting, walked toward the door. He paused, glancing out one last time, hoping that the rain had stopped. It hadn't – of course, and he took a deep breath before running as fast as he could with a body in his arms. It wasn't supposed to rain – there had only been a ten percent chance, and there hadn't been a cloud in the sky when Ianto had made his move. It was amazing how fast time went by when he was in the abandoned warehouse.

By the time he took the ten steps to his car, Ianto was already soaked through to the bone. A normal person would have cursed at his predicament, but Ianto refrained from expending any more energy than was absolutely necessary. He managed to wrestle the corpse into his trunk, then turned back and went inside for his duffel bag. Ianto paused as he looked around the warehouse. It had become so much to his life, the empty building. It was the only place that he could be himself and not have to worry about hiding. It was his safe house. He smiled, then faced the rain once again.

He drove the few miles to the hog farm and parked as close to the pen as he could get without the car getting stuck in the mud, which was quickly turning into a swamp. He got out and pulled Mike's soaked and freezing cold body out of the trunk. He slipped several times trying to get to the pen, and when he did manage to dump his body into the hog pen, Ianto was thrown into the fence by the intensity of a lighting bolt that stuck close-by. This time he did curse. He couldn't stay long – and wasn't comfortable with the fact that he couldn't stay to watch and see if the pigs would devour the body. He was angry; Ianto didn't like it when his schedule was compromised.

He walked back to the car and drove off, headed toward the junkyard. He was so focused on finishing getting rid of the evidence from the murder that he didn't realize that a small piece of his t-shirt was missing, and the cut in his skin from the fence was starting to ooze with blood.

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**Yeah, it was short, but it's the prologue, so I allowed it to be short. ^_^**

**Review!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: All righty then! Another chapter, just for you guys. I even updated it early in the morning. :-P Thanks so much for all of my reviewers and silent stalkers - there were a considerably large number of you! I'm glad, makes me feel great, and it makes my fingers move faster to get all the alerts about people watching and reviewing to my stories. ^_^ Now, you've been inside of Ianto's head, time for a small change. Hope you enjoy this as must as I enjoyed writing! **

**Also, the beautiful_ laisy_ over at LiveJournal made me a wonderful piece of artwork for this particular fic, which can be found at http:/ i130 (dot) photobucket (dot) com (slash) albums (slash) p253 (slash) toph_the_blind_bandit (slash) DW-TW (slash) nyd4ig (dot) png. I'd happily pass on any comments you have about it! I, for one, was absolutely taken away. ^_^**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, I would have handled it a lot better.**

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Jack Harkness was a man who thoroughly enjoyed his sleep.

He wasn't like some people, who only slept because if they didn't, they would just collapse and be completely useless. No, for Jack, sleep was an event. He loved the feeling of silk sheets encircling his body, his fluffy pillow of fluffiness a boat for his ride into the calm sea of REM. In fact, he was proud to say that the most expensive items in his apartment were his bed, sheets, and pillows. His favorite part about sleeping, though, was getting unintentionally tangled up in the other body that was sleeping with you, and having to 'apologize' for invading their space – kissing them senseless long enough to figure out which two feet at the end of the bed were yours was his favorite apology.

Which is why Jack was in a very bad mood when he was woken ahead of time, _and_ to an empty bed.

"G'way." He mumbled into his cell phone, which he placed on his ear before stuffing his hand back under the covers and closing his eyes, hoping that maybe he just imagined the piercing ringing of his cell phone, and that when the caller ID said "Gwen" it really meant "I'm sorry for giving you this false alarm, please Jack, go back to sleep." Of course, reality was never so kind.

"_Morning to you too." _The voice said, and Jack didn't even attempt to hide his groan. He snuggled deeper in the sheets and tried to forget that it was a Saturday, and on Saturdays he never got up before nine. Ever.

"_Hey, I'm not too happy about it either, Jack, but I don't think you want to pass this one by._"

The tone of her voice made Jack perk up. He sat up in bed and caught the cell phone as it fell off his face. Bringing the cellular device to his ear, Jack threw off the covers and did a one-handed stretch before standing up. "I swear to god, Gwen, if this is another suicide – I told Smith that if he wanted me to do some psych eval about another teenage drama queen, then he could take the pill bottle she used and shove it up his – "

"_Jack!_" The sharp tone cut him off, and he breathed out a large breath of air. He couldn't help it, he was grumpy at – he checked the time – quarter till seven on a Saturday morning. Being reminded of the time brought another groan. He had been up late too – not what you think. He had a late appointment the night before with his physical therapist, and had gotten home with a psych evaluation he had to have done before the morning to send to a prosecutor – the son of a bitch would be going to jail for a very long time, and Jack had to make sure he took part in it. As the only criminal profiler the Cardiff police had, he normally had things to do with a lot of cases. Of course, he would have waited until later to finish his report, prosecutor be damned, but when Ianto had gotten home, he had been completely soaked through with rain from the storm – not to mention looking like he might pass out from exhaustion. Jack worried about his boyfriend. He worked way too many hours to be a newspaper editor, and when he wasn't working, sleeping, or shagging Jack, he was at that gym.

He limped over to the closet and chose an outfit at random, not really caring. He grabbed a pair of briefs out of his drawer as well, balancing it all in his one hand while he held the phone up with the other. "Gimme details, Gwen. I don't want to ride out to wherever the hell you are, to find out it was just another hit and run."

"_This isn't a hit and run Jack._" He paused and straightened up at the sound of her voice. There was an emotion there, something that he rarely heard out of the homicide detective. It sounded like fear. Detective Gwen Cooper would get annoyed, tired of, fed-up with, and even worried about a case, but _never_ did he hear the kind of unfiltered fear that was in her voice. Oh, to the normal person listening to this conversation, they wouldn't have hear it, and if they did, would have written it off as annoyance. But Jack heard it – it was his job.

"Address." He said, gone was the whiny persona he had just been channeling several seconds ago.

"_I don't know Jack, this is pretty bad, meet me at the police station in thirty -_"

"Address! You know I need to see the crime scene for me to do my job Gwen. I don't need you to protect me." Jack said, using his shoulder to prop up the phone as he wiggled out of the pair of briefs he had worn to bed. Four years ago, Jack would have been sleeping with nothing on with his mother in the room next door. But something had happened, instilling a small amount of modesty in him.

He snapped the phone shut a few minutes later and paused in getting dressed to type the address into his blackberry. He whistled as the route showed up – whoever this killer was, he sure did drive out of his way. Jack hesitated in pulling up his slacks, and as a last minute instinctual thought, he put on jeans instead. He wanted to appear at least halfway professional, so he stuck with his original shirt choice, pulling on a bright pink dress shirt and a loosely-tied brown tie. He tucked his shirt in and pulled on a belt that matched his tie, then grabbed his work boots out of the back of the closet. He was hesitant pulling his boot on to his right foot, having to coax it slowly. Once both shoes were on, he got his camera bag from under the bed, along with his over-the-shoulder satchel that Gwen swore was a man-purse. Jack combated that attack by keeping a poster of Indiana Jones with his papers to pull out.

"Ianto?" He called out as he emerged from the bedroom. He hadn't even brushed his hair or shaved, and looked a little rugged. He found his lover sitting curled up on their couch, coffee in one hand, book in the other. The Welshman looked up as his name was called, and Jack shot him a begging look.

Without blinking, Ianto sat his own cup on the coffee table and picked up another mug that Jack hadn't even noticed – it was a travel mug and everything, extra large. Jack didn't know how the man did it. He looked tired, but it was an accomplished tired.

"You're a god!" Jack praised, grabbing the thermos and leaning down to kiss Ianto gently on the lips, loving the way the man tilted his head just right so that they could kiss without Jack's head getting in the way of the book. His eyes swept down his lovers frame – he couldn't help it – and paused, frowning a bit as he saw a fresh bruise on his torso, and a then cut on his arm. "What happened?"

Ianto glanced down at his bare torso then glanced at Jack before turning the page. "Ran into a machine at the gym and caught myself on a fence on the way to my car last night, couldn't see a bloody thing. Thought you had the day off?"

"No rest for the wicked." Jack announced and took a sip of his coffee. "Gwen called – wants my 'expert advice' on a body. Out in the middle of nowhere, near an old pig farm. Owner decided to stop by first time in a damn month last night cause of the storm and found it." Gwen had given him that information along with the address, and he knew it was safe to share. He talked over his cases with Ianto a lot of the time – he didn't ever have to worry about any of their chats getting in the newspaper either, Ianto had understood the silent promise without Jack ever having to talk to him about it. The Chief of Police hadn't been happy those three years ago when Jack had let the word out that he was dating a journalist, but he had never had a problem.

He praised Ianto's coffee once more before promising to call him to let him know when he'd be home, then left.

He didn't notice how Ianto's muscles had tensed when he mentioned the pig farm.

**-xXx-**

He arrived at the crime scene in a little under forty-five minutes, the whole way there his brain coming up with scenario and scenario of what could be so bad that the great Gwen Cooper would be scared shitless. It wasn't a pretty thought. The images that flashed through his mind grew grimmer and more dreadful as the time went on, and when he pulled his oversized SUV into the rain-soaked mud, he had even scared himself a little bit. The SUV had been a impulse buy, Jack going out one day for a consultation, and the next coming home with the monster. Ianto had just rolled his eyes and said it was just projecting to the world of Jack's ego – the man had very quickly pointed out (and gave a show) that the only reason he had bought it was for the extra room in the back. Ianto never complained after that.

He stepped out of the SUV and landed in a patch of mud, his boots squelching as he sunk several centimeters – his instinct about wearing jeans and boots had been a good one. He took his camera bag and satchel from the back of the SUV and strung both over his shoulder, going back a second time to grab his walking stick (it was a cane, but Jack would never admit it) after spending several minutes trying to unsuccessfully navigate his bad leg through the almost-swamp.

He made slow progress to the pigpen, which was at least ten yards in from where he had parked. Jack was glad he had four-wheel drive. There were several police cars parked near him and around the road, and as he got closer the police tape became more defined. There were way to many persons milling around, and in the middle of them was Homicide Detective Gwen Cooper.

She was standing there, the only authoritative figure in the bunch, her arms crossed and somehow managing to look in charge even though her boots were halfway submerged in the mud. Jack imagined she would have rather been pacing, but didn't want to be blubbering around. Her lips were set in a grim line, and her black hair blew softly in the almost non-existent wind. It was funny how calm the weather always seemed to be when there was a crime to uncover, as if giving you one last glimpse of peace before the shit hit the fan.

Gwen was a long time friend of Jack, and an ex-partner. They had worked together on the police force for almost a year and a half, before that grunting their way through school. They had been childhood friends, and Gwen had been his one and only girlfriend. It hadn't lasted long, about three weeks, until fifteen-year-old Jack realized that he wasn't as intrigued as his friends were. Even after that, though, they had stayed good friends. They had been ecstatic when they were assigned as partners on the force. Gwen had specialized in murder cases, while Jack had taken the more psychological route. They had made a dynamic team, and solved more cases in their one and a half years than an average police group would in three. They were set for bigger things – UNIT had been rumored to have their sights set on the two.

Of course, that all changed about four years ago, on one fateful night. They had discovered the location of a big drug supplier who had been leaving a trail of bodies – death not by overdose, but by bad drugs. They had teamed up with Narcotics on the case, and it was to be the biggest of there career. Someone, however, had tipped the druggies off ahead of time that the police were on to them, and Jack and Gwen had been faced with a choice. As the first ones on scene, they decided not to wait for their back-up and go in hot, hoping to catch one of the men before they made there escape.

Turned out not to be such a great idea – the men were waiting for them with pistols and shotguns. Jack, seeing the flash of the muzzle a second before Gwen had, jumped in front of her, taking a round of buckshot in the side. The two of them going in had slowed down the druggies just long enough for the backup to make it, and a record number of arrests were made. The same time the police cars were taking away the suspects, an ambulance was taking Jack to the Emergency Room. After several intense hours of surgery, he emerged alive, with several repercussions. The surgeon had managed to remove all of the buckshot, but at a cost. Jack still had several scars on the right side of his torso, and he couldn't raise his right arm above his head. That, and his right leg had been torn almost to shreds. His calf was gone, leaving just mottled flesh behind, and half of his thigh had to be cut off. Gwen made it out completely unharmed, save Jack's blood that had soaked through her shirt as she had attempted to staunch the bleeding.

Normal men would have called it quits and stepped away from the life of justice, but Jack wasn't a normal guy. He took night classes for complete his psychology degree, and ended up becoming the best consult that the Cardiff police ever had. He helped close more cases with his psych evals and interrogation tips than he had when he toted around a badge and a gun. And, just like before, he and Gwen had remained best friends. Jack knew that she still felt guilty, even four years later, but the man had moved on.

"What have we got? This better be good." Jack said as he came up behind the cop. Gwen turned and raised her eyebrow at him, neither of them able to hide the glimmer of humour behind there straight faces.

"Hello to you too, Doctor." Gwen said, starting their little greeting they went through whenever meeting on a crime scene. It was a ritual of them, and helped Jack get in the right mood. Most consultants of his degree were limited to the police station, but Jack had a unique talent. His ability to get into the mind of the criminal allowed him to step foot on crime scenes, where he could get the layout in his mind.

"Technically, you should call me Master, since I've only got a masters in psychology, Detective." Jack shot back, giving a quick smirk and refraining himself from calling her a PC. They had come a long way since those long nights of giving out tickets before there classes started.

Gwen snorted, then turned back to the crime scene. Jack followed her gaze, and couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that followed.

"The boys have been here for several hours, managed to get the body out of the mud and away from the hogs. Didn't do much, though." No it didn't. There was a pen, inside of which several hogs were wadding around in the mud, loving how squishy their play-pen had become. They snorted and oinked at random intervals, letting their friends know how happy they were. Lying next to the mud hole, on top of a blue, mud-stained tarp, was the corpse.

It was an ugly sight; the body was bloated from the rain, its skin a sickly grey colour. There were chunks missing from the body all together, and bite marks that were obviously from the hogs. White bone showed through the mangles skin at places, and others even the white was gone, leaving nothing but scarred stumps of flesh, muscle, and meat. The face was twisted away from recognition, and the clothing was almost nonexistent, the only article still fully intact the tie, hanging limply around the body's neck like a used noose. The stench was revolting, and as Jack continued to look, he couldn't help his eyes from stinging.

"No chance the unlucky bloke just stumbled upon the pen in the storm last night?" Jack asked, although he already knew the answer. The desolate farm was literally miles away from civilization, the only buildings anywhere near the area being a deserted warehouse down the street, and the farmer's own house and other barn. The hogs seemed to laugh at his naive question.

"We don't think so, although it's gonna be hell finding out the cause of death – I'm sure Suzie can manage." Gwen said, running a hand through her hair before resorting back to crossing her arms. Jack knew that stance, it was the one that she used when trying to maintain her hard exterior in front of her men.

"Good 'ol Suzie. I'm guessing you're taking the pigs, too?" Jack asked, his hands started to take his camera from his bag, wanting to take pictures to be able to re-create the scene in his head.

"Yeah, dissecting them for the rest of John Doe here. But that's not why we called you, Jack. You think this was the crime scene?"

Jack brought the camera up to his eyes and started taking pictures. "No, especially not last night, with the rain – unless the killer brought him out here ahead of the storm. Still wouldn't make sense though – this guy knew what he was doing. This is the cleanest way of getting rid of a body fast. Hogs that are starved enough will eat anything dead – bones and all. I think it was done someplace else, this is too open – just a hunch."

"You an' your bloody hunches." Gwen muttered. "We've got men searching the warehouse nearby, and we brought in the farmer for questioning. We should be able to get an ID off of our man here when Suzie is done with him."

The sound of the shutter was only one of the many sounds that buzzed around the scene. Jack finished taking his photos and put the camera away. Next, he reached into his satchel and took out a small legal pad, and started to write anything that he saw down. The smell, the taste in his mouth, the way the trees in the distance were situated, how many hogs there were, the total number of bite marks on the victim. Anything.

"One of our tech's also found a small piece of cloth on the fence, but I don't think it's gonna give us anything. The damn rain-washed away any footprints or blood that could have been on the scene. We'll have to hope that there is some DNA on our guy that isn't his." Gwen watched Jack as he wrote everything down, completely used to his crime-scene behavior. She also knew that he would go home that night and set up a large white board, filling it with every piece of information that he had. Jack Harkness was thorough; she'd give him that.

"Gotcha." Jack said when he was finished writing everything down. He closed his legal pad and replaced it in his satchel. "I do have a question though." He looked at Gwen curiously. "This is horrifying, I'll admit – disgusting, even. But not what caused that fear in your voice. You've dealt with floaters and animal attacks before."

Gwen took a deep breath, then edged as close as the swamp under her feet would allow. Jack leaned in closer.

"The body wasn't the only present that washed up from the pig pen, Jack. We've got three bones that our on-site forensic team say aren't from the body."

"So we've got a double homicide?" Jack asked, intrigued. Gwen shook her head.

"The three bones are all from different bodies – we're pretty sure there human. And we haven't even finished drenching the mud hole yet."

Jack straightened up, the information running through his mind, his brain automatically jumping to the most obvious conclusion. "You mean that we've got four possible different bodies, all at the same dumping ground – a dumping ground that a professional would use."

Gwen nodded, and Jack suddenly got the same chills down his back. "Cardiff has it's own serial killer."

"_Might_." Gwen stressed, but her voice didn't have much conviction.

Jack sighed, then turned back to look at the deranged body once more. "Might want to brush up on your Hannibal Lecter."

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**Ah, more next Tuesday! And don't worry, I have a lot in store for all of you!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Special thanks to my reviewers and silent stalkers! Here's the next chapter ^_^**

* * *

Toshiko Sato was, in her own right, a genius. Over the years, she had come to be known as the best forensic technician in the area. She had helped solve dozens, if not hundreds of cases, and had been a consultant for UNIT, dozens other police stations, and even the FBI and CIA over in the states. But for some strange reason, unbeknown to the rest of the worlds population, every time a case was solved, and her expertise no longer needed, she went right back to the Cardiff police station. They didn't even understand why she kept renewing her contract year after year, and neither did they question it. She had saved their asses on multiple cases – too many to count. And soon enough they would find that she would rescue them once again.

She was sitting in her lab now, glasses on the edge of her nose as she squinted at the screen. Her white lab coat protected her from the constant chill that came with residing so close to the morgue. The Cardiff police were lucky, the town morgue being located right next to their building.

She shivered a bit, but not because of the cold. She had just gotten the results back from the DNA testing off of the bones and body found at the latest crime scene – Suzie Costello had examined the body, then was able to get DNA from the marrow of the unidentified bones. She was also able to confirm that the bones belonged to three separate people – in addition to the body. Tosh had received the DNA several hours ago, and was running it through the system. She had managed to procure the names of all four victims – the hits all coming from the missing persons database.

But even that wasn't what sent a shiver down her spine. As she read more into their background information, the sinking feeling that had began as just a simple little knot in her stomach grew until it sucked all the air out of the room and caused the temperature to drop several more degrees. Even Toshiko's coat couldn't shield her from this kind of cold. With shaky fingers, she grabbed the lab's phone and dialed a number that over the years she had learned by heart.

"Hello, Detective Cooper? Yes, It's Toshiko. I found something. Big."

It took all of ten minutes for the scientist to get company in her little corner of the universe. She heard them before she saw them – first, the tell-tale sound of high heeled boots resonating off the corridor; Toshiko still couldn't figure out how the Detective was able to work in shoes like those. Next, the much slower, painstaking steps of Jack Harkness. The footstep of a left foot hitting the floor, following by the simultaneous thump of a cane and lighter right footsteps. Toshiko had a pretty good idea why it took so long for them to arrive.

"What have you got, Tosh?" Gwen asked as she came into view, followed by the psychologist, who – if Toshiko would be so bold – looked a bit worse for the wear. She hadn't been out of her cupboard of space since early that morning, but if the coffee-bringers and others who had been traipsing through during work hours were anything to go by, the man hadn't left the police station since the body had been brought in over twelve hours ago.

"Ah, my brilliant and beautiful Toshiko." Jack said, giving a weary smile before leaning heavily on a table that was near her station. She almost managed to hide the blush that crept up onto her cheeks – Jack had always been nice to her, and over the years, had become used to using that pet name for her every time he visited. Many nights were spent sleeping on the floor of her lab together because Jack needed to talk through some information that he wasn't allowed to share with Ianto, and Toshiko was in need of an all-nighter for a case.

She gave a weak smile back, and then became all business, glancing at her screen, wishing that it had changed since the last time she checked. It hadn't. "The computer database found matches for all four sets of DNA." She started.

"Well, that's a good start." Gwen said, her voice not sounding anywhere near relieved.

Toshiko continued. "The latest victim – the body – was a Mark Lyndon. The other three sets of DNA belong to a Lisa Hallett, John Ellis, and Jasmine Pierce." She pulled up pictures of all the deceased she had just listed. "Charity man, Defense Lawyer, Store Owner, and Psychologist. That, however, is just about where the differences end."

Jack moved from his position to a spot closer to the computer, where he could look at the faces. "Tosh, I want those photos printed out and given to me before I leave today." Jack worked better when he could see the faces of the victims that he was working for. This case would differ no more from any other. His face was hard, the mask that he normally put in place for when he dealt with homicides. Toshiko didn't know how he did it, venturing into the mind of the killer to figure out not only how he did it, but why as well. It was an unstable career at best. She shook the thoughts from her mind and moved on.

"Each of them were found in the missing persons database within the past six months, which was why they were flagged so quickly. It gets kinda creepy here, each of them was listed as missing almost _exactly_ a month apart, save two or three days at the most."

"Pattern." Jack whispered mostly to himself, but the word did not escape the other two. Gwen swallowed heavily, thinking the same thing. She had been privy to a lot of Jack's knowledge – what else were they supposed to talk about on those long stakeouts all those years ago?

Toshiko hesitated, waiting to see if Jack would say something else, but he didn't. She swallowed, and then continued. "I also found a common link that connects them – Lyndon was a known abuser, illegibly killed his son, although it was never proven. Hallett was in town for a trial – defending a known pedophile. She had just closed the case a few days before she went missing – she got the man off with community service. Ellis' wife had gone on the stand for child abuse several months ago, but with his refusal to testify against her, the court was unable to convict. And Pierce had been charged several times with manipulating young patients of hers into keeping quiet about their abusive parents – as well as any extra activities she partook with them. She was never convicted."

Gwen closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. "All connected in some way with rape and child abuse – all let off the hook – all missing a month apart. It's the beginning of an MO."

"I'm not done." Toshiko said quietly, earning sharp looks from both.

"How can it get worse than this?" Gwen asked, and flinched at her words moments later – you never asked a question like that, especially in her line of work.

"Since there is a reputable time of attack, I took the liberty of searching the database for similar cases – people involved in abuse of some sort that went missing about a month apart." Tosh took a deep breath to steady her voice and her nerves before pressing a button on the computer, opening a new page. On it were names after names, stacked on top of each other. Last, First, date went missing.

"Dear god." Gwen breathed.

"How many." Jack finally spoke up, staring at the screen, a shaky quality in his voice that neither of the women in the room were privy to very often.

"Fifty." Toshiko said.

"Four and a half years." Jack commented, closing his eyes, as if the number was too much to handle. "This sonuvabitch has been killing for _four and a half_ fucking _years._"

"Cardiff has it's own serial killer." Gwen stated the obvious, at a loss for any other words. Toshiko was only able to nod wordlessly.

**-xXx-**

"You two do know that it's past seven in the evening." Chief of Police John Smith said as he sat behind his desk, arms folded across his chest in a manner that would have been frightening and stern if it wasn't for the rest of his body. As Police Chiefs go, he was definitely not the stereotype. Most people, when they thought about men who ran police forces, they envision a tall, stocky fellow whose muscles filled out his t-shirt, with graying hair and a face that had seen too much action. What they didn't expect to find was a forty-some-odd brown-haired man with a youthful face and tall, skinny physique. Of course, if those people had known what the Chief had been through, they wouldn't have whispered about his big eyes or odd blue suit with the oversized tie, or those thick black glasses that always seemed to be falling off his nose, or the fact that a lot of times, he went off on tangents and seemed to forget about what it was he had been talking about in the first place.

No, if everyone knew that he had been at the head of the terrorist attack on Canary Warf, yelling out orders to soldiers and police alike, pausing only to tell a wounded and dying man that everything was going to be ok when it was completely obvious it was not. Or that he had been one of the only surviving aids that had arrived on scene, escaping with dirt and blood all over his clothes and body and carrying with him the thousands of souls that hadn't of been so lucky, they wouldn't have whispered behind his back. As it was, the uneducated of Cardiff who were lucky enough to meet this man and hold a conversation with him enjoyed passing there time with jibes of how such a young, inexperienced man such as John Smith who had never made the headlines once became the chief of police. Of course, being the uneducated, they didn't know that the reason he had stayed out of the headlines was because he didn't care about reputation – only the betterment of citizens and his people.

"Yes sir, but we wanted to hand this to you personally." Detective Gwen Cooper stated from her standing position in the Chief's modest office. It was crowded with files here and there of old and new cases alike, but it always seemed as if there was just enough room for whoever decided to stop by and have a chat. There was a joke around the water cooler that the Chief's office was 'bigger on the inside.'

"No, you wanted to make sure that you were on site to talk me into letting you keep the case now that vital information has been discovered." The Chief said in a slightly teasing manner. Even in the most dire of situations, he always had a word to say – it was what, in some cases, kept this police station running and above all other law enforcement divisions in Wales.

"That too." Jack said, a little distracted, his voice coming from the chair in the Chief's office. He had decided to accept the man's offer to sit down when they had entered the room. Gwen had noticed this, but didn't say anything. Normally when Jack acted like this, it was because the pain in his leg and the rest of his right side was flaring up again – something that the criminal profiler did not like anyone knowing.

Chief John Smith frowned at Jack's mood, and held out his hand for the file. Normally, Jack was one of the only ones in the entire station that would dare engage in a verbal match with the Chief, and the only one to have won an argument – other than his late wife, that it. She had been one of the thousands of casualties in the terrorist attack – just another name on the list.

Wordlessly, Gwen handed over the file, which contained the information that Suzie had found from the autopsy as well. John opened the file and swiftly began to read, his small frown growing deeper as he read. The almost always invisible lines of age showed on the man's face, and the longer his eyes moved back and forth across the page, the more the things that he had seen became readable. There had only been a few times that the Chief had shown a face of concern and worry in front of his people.

He didn't say anything for a while after he finished – he just sat there, his extremely strategic brain mulling over the information that he had just eaten. The report from Toshiko had been in there as well, and John didn't like what he was reading. He had dealt with a serial killer once before, a long time ago, way before Canary Warf; long before he had even begun to become the man he was that day. He didn't like recalling what had happened with that particular case.

"Cooper – you run point on this. Jack, consider yourself hired. Anyone inside and outside of the station you need, consider them yours. This case takes priority – I want the best task force Cardiff has ever seen working on this. I know a consultant who worked for London several years ago who helped close a somewhat similar case – I'll take the liberty of calling him." John leaned forward, all business. His voice was low, but carried more command than one would have thought possible. "According to the file, we have about a month until this man strikes again. I want him behind bars by then."

John paused and looked at the two people in front of him, then amended his statement. "And I want for you to start working on it tomorrow. Get some sleep. Dismissed."

Gwen and Jack both nodded, not even bothering to give the Chief a smile before leaving. Once they were safely out of earshot, Gwen turned to Jack and offered her arm for him to lean on, which he gratefully did. "Jack, are you ok?"

"I'm fine." He muttered, "Just tired."

"How about your leg?" She couldn't keep the concern out of her voice, even though she knew that Jack hated it – said it sounded too much like pity.

"Acting up, like it does every damn day. Really Gwen, I'm fine." He paused to give her a genuine – albeit tired – smile. "A bit thrown with the information. I mean, this morning it was a maybe. Now it's real. Biggest case yet."

"And we're gonna take down the bastard. Tomorrow." Gwen stressed the last word. "Get some rest. Let Ianto rub your foot or something – just no more than that, hear?"

That elicited a chuckle from Jack as they moved through the almost abandoned police station. Only the night shift was out and about, which wasn't saying much.

"Need a ride home?" Gwen asked as they got outside, and Jack shook his head.

"I'll make it." He said. Gwen, in an impromptu moment, gave Jack a big hug before smiling and giving him a light peck on the cheek.

"See you tomorrow." She said before walking off to her own car, and eventually to her boyfriend, Rhys. Jack went his own way, taking the long trek to his oversized SUV, which looked like a monster in the almost darkness. It was going to be a very long month.

**-xXx-**

Ianto Jones was a man of schedule. He liked to have everything planned. He woke up at a certain time every morning, spent only the minimum amount of time in the shower (unless Jack had decided to join him, in which Ianto had an alternative schedule made up to make up for lost time), and had his morning breakfast ritual down to a T. Everything from his closet to his work to his relationship to his extra curricular activities was planned ahead of time, jotted down in a notebook or written somewhere in his mind. He was a man of order and neatness, who despised impromptu-ness almost as much as surprise birthday parties.

Which was why he had been a little more than perturbed when he learned that his perfectly planned world had been knocked off kilter.

He spent a generous amount of time internally ranting, that day. His mind went over everything, from where things had been going so right until that exact moment that they turned wrong. He re-lived every second – of which he had perfectly documented – every move, every decision. Then he spent about half that long telling himself that maybe some other guy had decided to use an old abandoned hog farm as his dumping ground on the outskirts of Cardiff. But the timing had been too perfect for it to be a coincidence, and Ianto didn't believe in that sort of thing, anyway.

He had been glad that Jack had to call and say that he wouldn't be coming home until late, because Ianto didn't think he could play house anymore at that particular moment. His façade had been stripped bare due to his being caught unawares, and he was a dangerous companion to have at the moment. His anger – his true self, the part of him that had been always kept hidden except for at those perfect moments – had barged through the carefully constructed layers of Ianto's mind, and he had needed time to replace them. He hadn't become violent or hazardous. Instead, he had spent the rest of the time that he had that day thinking. He had shut off everything in the house – air conditioning, washing machine, television, lights, everything. Then he had laid down in the middle of his bed with his stopwatch encased with his thin fingers, and thought.

He thought about the past no more though, for he had spent long enough there that morning. He thought about what would come next – what he needed to prepare himself for. He slowly began to rebuild those layers of his mind, went over the facts that he, as a devoted partner of three years, should know. He mentally restored himself to the man that he had been that morning before Jack had gotten that phone call. He thought about those two gorgeous blue eyes, and that beautiful laugh, and the fake pout and crude jokes and humility that was Jack Harkness. It calmed him down.

Whenever he felt that anger, that being inside of him that was his pure self, rise up, he would click the top button of his stopwatch without opening his eyes and listen to the little tick-tick-tick of the second hand. After twenty clicks, he would press the button again, and continue on his mental journey.

When Ianto had opened his eyes, the morning sun had been replaced with the gentle textures of sunset. His being had been calm and serene, the Ianto Jones that Jack knew and loved breathing and living instead of the livid, twisted creature that he really was. And when he had rolled off of the bed and glanced at the time on his stopwatch, he had smiled. It was one of those genuine unguarded smiles that Jack had never seen, and never would, because they were saved only for those whose death was near. Then he had stood up, and turned everything back on in the house, and re-inserted himself into the life that he had been living the past three years, ready and able to face the future.

Ianto Jones was ready. Ready for whatever the police were going to throw at him.

And when Jack had come home not even an hour later, Ianto had just finished up cooking dinner, greeting the man with a plate of ravioli and a frosted mug of beer.

"Another big case?" Ianto asked after giving Jack sufficient time to enter the apartment and shed his boots without feeling rushed. He finished setting the table, then walked over in time to help Jack out of his coat. He folded it, and then laid it softly over the edge of the couch.

Ianto was a bit surprised when Jack failed to initiate any kind of intimate contact, which caused the Welshman a small amount of concern. Something wasn't right. He took it upon himself, and tugged on Jack's hand, tangling their fingers together before pulling him in for a soft but sweet kiss. Jack sighed into the kiss, and when Ianto pulled away exactly two seconds later, the criminal profiler didn't pull away, resting his forehead on Ianto's and closed his eyes.

"Cariad?" Ianto whispered, resorting to his Welsh. He knew that would always open Jack up, but he also knew that there was no way of getting the man to open up unless he wanted to.

Ianto pulled away after waiting a predetermined twenty three seconds. He squeezed Jack's hand reassuringly, and then retreated back into the kitchen. It was a trick that Jack had taught him after they had been together for a week and four days. Ianto had been quite agitated, needing a release but not having done enough research and preparation to be comfortable with it. Jack had noticed his agitated state, and hadn't said anything. Instead, he had just taken Ianto's hand and squeezed it before going on with his own business. The Welshman had found it oddly helpful, and had taken to copying it when he felt Jack was feeling the same way.

He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Jack wearily moved across the threshold of the living room to the large couch, where he sat down slowly. He was moving like a zombie, and none of his usual endless energy was in sight. Ianto, seeing this, turned from what he was doing and reached into the far cupboard all the way in the back until he found what he was looking for. He withdrew with several bottles of pills and a small container that held sleeping capsules that dissolved in water.

Ianto had been given that later medicine the first time he had visited Jack's physical therapist. Jack had invited him to go along once Ianto had accepted the invitation to move in, and it became obvious that this was going to be a long-term relationship. The woman – Doctor Martha Jones – and Jack had seemed well at ease with each other, and Ianto had felt out of place in there, sitting on the couch next to Jack, there hands together as the man and the Doctor talked endlessly. It wasn't until the end of the session that Martha had asked to talk to Ianto alone. As soon as Jack had gotten out of sight and ear reach Martha had started to talk to Ianto, telling him how Jack hadn't only gotten hurt physically, but was emotionally scarred as well. She told him about these "funks" that he would get in, how he would seem drained of all energy and really depressed. She gave him sleeping tablets for those specific times – he apparently relived that fateful night in his dreams whenever he got into a mood, and the tablets helped to quell that – and told him all that could really be done was to give him a few pain pills and be supportive.

Ianto hadn't been real sure how exactly to be "supportive" at the time, but he had quickly learned – he hadn't become the man he was today because he couldn't adapt.

He opened the box and took out two of the sleeping pills before popping the lid off of the other bottle and taking out two of those as well. The tablets he dissolved in a glass of water he had gotten. Jack had refused the first couple of times to take the pills out of some sort of pride. Ianto had taken to giving them to him without him knowing.

He brought out the water with the pain pills and wordlessly set both on the coffee table. Then he sat on the other end of the couch from Jack. The other man took this as a signal, and swung his legs up onto Ianto's lap. He sat up just long enough to swallow the pills, then he laid back down on the couch.

Ianto started his ministrations quietly, slowly slipping off the socks from Jack's feet before softly running his fingers over the toes. He worked his way upward, gently massaging his feet, then legs, taking care to be extra sensitive on the right leg.

Ianto watched Jack as he did this. He saw the way his eyelids moved under his eyes and how his lips pressed together tightly when Ianto just a point _just_ right. He knew that there was something Jack wanted to talk about – needed to, even – but Ianto didn't push it.

"It hurts." Was all he said when he finally decided to talk three minutes and seventeen seconds later. His voice was soft, not loud enough to be called a whisper. There was pain in his voice, and Ianto had a small inkling of an idea how he felt. He closed his eyes for a moment and a flash of light shot through his eyes as the feeling of hands on his neck overcrowded his brain. But then his eyes opened again and the hands were gone, and he could breathe again. The whole little episode lasted point five seconds.

Ianto didn't say anything in response, his hands just started to move further up Jack's legs, his fingers leaving only feathery touches. He moved up Jack's right leg, taking care to avoid the worst spots of Jack's injury, but at the same time not coming near his unblemished skin. He skipped over his waist, and his finger jumped to the button on Jack's shirt, where he slowly began to undo them.

Jack never opened his eyes.

Ianto finished opening the shirt, but even then he did nothing but continue his way up, his fingers gently wisping over the scars and twisted flesh on the right side of Jack's abdomen. Ianto would have continued, but a strong hand encircled his wrist, and those beautiful blue eyes finally cracked open to meet another pair of the same colour and intensity. He pulled Ianto forward until he was forced to lie on top of Jack. The profiler kissed Ianto softly on the forehead, then wrapped his arms around him until the both of them were lying stretched out across the sofa, the Welshman having to lie slightly on top of Jack for them to fit.

"Love you." Jack said breathily as the sleeping tablets took there toll and he drifted off to sleep. Ianto didn't reply.

He lay there for five and a half more minutes, slowly counting the time in his head, keeping track from the tick-tock-tick of the clock on the wall. When he was sure Jack was asleep, he sat up and carefully got off of the couch. He stared at his lover, giving himself five minutes to just stand there, looking.

Jack was so peaceful as he slept, his face lax of any worry or laugh lines that he had during the day. His eyes were closed to hide the pain and the love that were always shining so brightly behind them. But it wasn't the face of Jack Harkness that Ianto loved so much – it was the scars. Because it reminded Ianto how alike the two of them were. They both had pieces of them that they tried so hard – and succeeded in – to keep hidden. Ianto loved Jack's scars, his mangled flesh, because it was like looking into the mirror, seeing himself in the reflection.

Ianto had never told Jack that he loved him. He would respond accordingly with roundabout phrases that meant the same thing but didn't have _that_ word in them. Ianto wanted to return the feeling, but he didn't know what love was, or how it was supposed to feel in a person like him. He wanted to, one day, tell Jack that he loved him. But he couldn't yet, because of all the lying and deceiving that Ianto did every day, that was one phrase that he couldn't bring himself to fake.

* * *

**Review?**


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: First, I want to give a huge thank you to Jooles, who is looking over these chapter for me. Then, I want to thank all of my reviewers and silent stalkers, because I've been getting a lot of alerts for this story, and they make me happy. ^_^ Also, I have some good news for you guys! Starting NEXT WEEK I'm going to be updating twice a week - Mondays and Thursdays. I want to get this whole thing posted before school started, and if I do it that way it would end up being perfect timing. So less wait for you guys!**

**Hope you enjoy - You get to find out who exactly the Chief hired, and Jack is a very bad boy.**

* * *

He sat there, in the front of the room, twiddling his thumbs because he had already ruffled his papers enough times that if he did it again, it would look suspicious. He glanced over at Gwen, who gave him a small encouraging smile that was supposed to help, but it didn't. He slid his eyes across the room, the blue orbs taking everything in without really noticing the details. It was full with his and Gwen's handpicked team that they had slaved over yesterday. Sunday this week, ended up not being a day of rest. He had spent pretty much the entire day with Gwen hunched over papers, organizing everything. At least they had gotten out of the police station – they had gone to Gwen's place since Sunday was Ianto's cleaning day and he didn't like it when guests came and got in the way.

It was a small team – Andy Davidson, a newly promoted Detective who had a knack for finding little bits of information that ended up being a large help; Toshiko Sato as their resident technical expert; Mickey Smith from their violent crime division, and several other police that volunteered to join in the task force. Even though Chief Smith told them they could hire outside help, both of them thought that the expert the Chief was bringing in would be sufficient. They both trusted the man with theirs and others' lives, and if he thought the man in question could pull through, then they did too. They didn't know much about this mystery man, other than the fact that several years ago, when Chief was located in London, he worked with this man, and together they helped catch the notorious London Lyncher, who pelted his victims with stone and sticks before hanging them from the tenth floor of a hotel.

Jack looked at the clock once more, as if it would have moved more than five seconds since the last time he spared it a glance. It was about three until eleven in the morning, and the briefing was about to start. Since Gwen was given point, and gave Jack the title of second in command of this investigation, they sat in the front of the room, while the others filled in by sitting on desks and chairs that had been squeezed into the conference room. Everyone had a file detailing the information they had on the case, but no one had dared to be the first to open it.

Two minutes till, and the Chief of Police walked through the double doors, shooting a large smile in the general direction of everyone in the room. He wore today a brown suit with a blue shirt and tie underneath, his thick-rimmed glasses always balanced precariously on the end of his nose. A large cup of coffee was in his hands, and his chucks squeaked loudly on the floor. The mood in the room lightened considerably with the man's arrival, and Jack felt a little better. It wasn't that he was nervous about addressing the police – he had done it many times before - it was the waiting that got to him. Gwen had always called him a jittery waiter on those long nights of stakeouts and waiting for the information to come in from the lab. He was better suited for the action, or even just doing something productive.

"I think we can go ahead and start – the Private Detective will be a little late." the Chief said, and if it was humanly possible, the room became even quieter. He nodded at this obvious show of respect, then began. "I'm sure that, even though it's only been two days since this case started, you have all heard rumors. Yes – we are dealing with a serial killer. We'd like to keep that, and any information from this case, under lock and key. No reporters, no talking to family members, no mumbling about it as you walk down the street. You will listen to Detective Cooper and Mister Harkness. You will find this killer before he or she is able to strike again. And you will do it together. Detective Cooper?"

Gwen stood up at her name, and smiled at the Chief. "Thanks Chief."

She turned to the small crowd that was in the room and started. She would outline the facts of the case, then Jack would go into detail about the personality outline that he had built from the information Suzie and Toshiko had ascertained. She began by turning to a large whiteboard and flipping it over. On it were four photos of four different people, all of them the pictures that had been used on the missing persons' database. "These are the four known victims of the killer. Missing a month apart from each other, all involved in child abuse or rape."

Then she turned to another whiteboard and did the same. This time, however, the pictures were a lot smaller, since there was a lot more of them. "These are the forty-six possible victims. Listed underneath each one is the date that they went missing, along with any other information that has been found linking them to this case."

She turned from her position at the board in order to better look the people in the room in the face, needing them to hear her next statement. "Any other cases that you have – drop them, transfer them, I don't care. This is your number one priority from now on, because in one month's time we will have another body on our hands."

She paused for dramatic effect. "I'm going to let Jack Harkness take the floor for a moment to explain to you what kind of person we are looking for, then I'll go over the report in detail."

Jack stood up when his name was called and limped to the middle of the floor. He left his cane hooked on the back of his chair, and tried his hardest to walk the short distance to the front of the room in a straight line. If anyone noticed this, they stayed silent.

Jack didn't need papers to read off the short profile he had typed up the night before – there wasn't much to go on, and a lot of it was speculation. The police in the room knew that his profile was not perfect science, so it gave him a little leeway. "Obviously, this guy has something against being abused – probably abused himself as a child, or maybe it was a sibling who was raped or abused and they were unable to do anything to help.

"The monthly killing pattern shows us that this isn't a case of revenge. You don't kill for four years to get revenge. No – you do it because you can't stop." Jack paused and shifted his weight before continuing. "It's like smoking. The first few times you do it for the experience – just to see how it tastes, how it feels. But after a while, that lunchtime cigarette becomes a lot more than just a special treat. It becomes part of your routine. It comforts you, it becomes something so familiar that you don't even think twice before lighting it." The criminal profiler enjoyed using everyday occurrences that could connect people to what he was saying. It made the situation hit home easier than just explaining things in professional lingo.

"From the way the body was dealt with we can tell that he knows what he is doing, more than likely has a higher education. Also - " But Jack wasn't able to say anything else. Because at that exact moment, the double doors to the conference room burst open, and a man that Jack never wanted to see again as long as he lived waltzed in.

Although, the more correct term would be swaggered, because that's exactly how the man walked. He had used both arms to burst through the doors, a dazzling smile already on his suntanned face. His arms fell to his side as soon as he was finished entering the room, and his thumbs found there way to his belt loops on his dark skinny jeans, which were tucked into large brown boots. He wore an off-white undershirt, along with a hip holster that strapped around his waist and held a licensed handgun. But it wasn't the way that his t-shirt and jeans seemed to hug every part of his body in the exact right way that caused all the heads to turn (ok, maybe a little bit), it was the intense stare of his deep grey eyes, and the messy short-cut bundle of dark red hair that sat upon his head. Match that with his cheekbones that looked like they were chiseled out of granite, and everyone in the room was staring – not all wondering why he was there and who he was.

"Sorry I'm late." he said, his voice full of overconfidence and cockiness. He shot a smile toward the general area of the room, and his eyebrows rose in surprise when his eyes alighted on Jack's. For a moment, the two of them stood there, grey entangling with blue.

"Why are you here?" Jack asked, recovering from his shock of seeing the man. He didn't even attempt to hide his frown.

"Your Chief hired me for the case – I heard you boys have a serial killer on the loose." Another one of those damned smiles. Jack curled his fingers into fists and felt his fingernails cut into his palm.

"Private Detective John Hart." he announced. Then, without ceremony, he swiped the case file out of the hands of poor Andy Davidson, who was unlucky enough to be the closest to the private eye. John's eyes quickly skipped along the words, his brain summarizing the information that the Chief had already told him, adding to it the new information he got from the file. "Seems to me that you boys are in over your heads. This is a lot more than addiction to cigarettes, Harkness."

John threw the file back at Andy, who managed to catch it before the information went tumbling to the floor. He made his way to the front of the small conference room, where he immediately took over the spotlight, effectively nudging Jack out of the way. More than a little pissed, the profiler reclaimed his seat next to Gwen.

"Why the hell did Chief have to bring _him_?" he hissed behind the protection of his own case file.

Gwen replied in a similar manner. "I don't bloody know – he doesn't tell me anything. Talk to Chief about it after this brief."

Gwen was the only person that knew the whole truth behind the complicated relationship between Jack and John, and he had every right to be upset at his untimely and abrupt appearance. Wanting to take a bit of revenge herself, and needing something to help the fact that she had been thrown as well, Gwen gave Jack a wink before standing up and interrupting John mid-sentence.

"Suzie finished the autopsy report last night, and believes that we have a cause of death. There was pre-mortem bruising around the neck of the victim, as well as small pieces of fiber imbedded around the same area. This is enough evidence to believe that the victim was choked to death. There were also some numbers carved into the arm of the victim, reading 456. This could be a code of some sort, or maybe a message, or a way of our killer to keep track of his kills. I have Toshiko running scenarios, and Mickey, I want you to help her, you've got a brain for that kind of thing. Andy - "

"Wait." John said, frowning as he processed Gwen's words. "You seem to be missing a crucial piece of information."

The whole room leaned forward, waiting to see what the newcomer would have to add to the case. Jack gritted his teeth and refrained from rolling his eyes, knowing a mischievous look when it passed on John's face. Despite his outwardly calm behavior, he was boiling on the inside, and one hundred percent ready to tear into the man as soon as this meeting was adjourned. It wouldn't do him any good for the task force to see him so unbalanced.

"You haven't given him a name." John said. "You can't just go around calling the bloke 'killer' can you? Not good for team moral. I think the 'Bikini Cop Killer' would be brilliant. Show of hands?" His right hand shot straight up in the air, accompanied only by the hand of Mickey Smith – a sharp look from Gwen quickly convinced him to put it back down.

"Dismissed – come see me if you haven't been given an assignment." Gwen sighed, giving up on any chance of being able to complete this meeting. She gave John a glare that would kill, then stalked off.

Jack bolted out of the room as well – as fast as he could, anyway. He was disgusted at John and the fact that he was already interrupting their progress. There was a serial killer out on the loose for gods sake – playing around wasn't anywhere on the agenda. He needed to talk to Chief quickly about getting rid of Hart – or at least finding some way to keep him under control.

He didn't even bother knocking as he barged through the door into the Chief's office. He was alone and sitting behind his desk, glasses almost to the point of slipping off, but not quite. Had the moment been less urgent, Jack would have made some sort of joke about how they must be glued to the end of his nose. As it was, he stayed silent about it.

The Chief didn't even glance up from his paperwork, his hands signing his scribble that passed for a signature with great flourish. "Jack? What is it?"

Jack set his jaw and tried to quell his anger before continuing. He used his cane as a pointer and aimed it out of the door. "Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me your 'consultant' was John Hart?"

Now the Chief put down his papers and took his glasses from his nose, folding them and sticking them inside his front jacket pocket before responding. "Language, Jack."

The profiler was about to say something else, but Chief continued before Jack was able to get in another jibe. "If the two of you have some sort of background – I don't care. Work it out or ignore it, but whatever personal issues you have with John Hart are not mine or this agency's problem. Our problem is the fact that there is a serial killer on the loose in Cardiff. The fact is, we _need_ him. And you. You're 36, Jack. Act like it."

"I'm not the one acting like a child, Chief! John completely destroyed our briefing with the task force within ten minutes of arriving! _And_ who let him in the building with a gun? I know John, Chief – better than you think you do – he's reckless and distracting and is only in it for the reputation! Neither Gwen or I want someone like that in the way of this investigation!" Jack's voice grew steadily louder with each passing moment, his memory calling to present all of the examples that he could use to persuade the Chief. But the man wasn't about to give him the chance.

"I'll admit that he's a little unorthodox, but - "

"_Little_ unorthodox!" Jack butted in, a fierce look from the Chief quieting any other outbursts.

"But he has experience dealing with these kinds of people. And whatever his motivations are, they certainly serve to do the job. This is my decision, Jack. I've given Gwen and you pretty much free reign on this investigation – and you aren't even a Detective." This comment hit Jack like a physical blow, and he winced under the harshness that was detected under the Chief's words. "You will let John Hart help in any way possible – he is under the exact same contract as you are, Jack. I need both of you if we are going to catch this killer. Look at it this way; John is a field detective who will be working with us – he can get certain information we need without having to jump through the government hoops and cut through all the red tape that we have to."

Jack's argument died out that instant as he saw exactly what the Chief was getting at. It wasn't illegal, per say, but it was frowned upon. John could do things faster and more efficiently than the police if they needed someone interviewed or a piece of property searched within a time limit. He shook his head, but admitted defeat. "Fine."

He turned and started to limp out the door, pausing under the doorway when the Chief called to him. Jack turned, his eyebrow raised in question.

"I'm sorry if he hurt you, Jack. I really am. But this isn't about you."

"I wasn't arguing in my behalf, Chief." Jack said in an equally quiet voice before slipping out of the room.

Jack didn't make it three steps out of the Chief's office before he was face to face with John. The man must have been eavesdropping outside of the office, and had adopted a not-so-innocent look on his face as he leaned against the brick wall. As Jack walked past, John pushed off of the wall and followed him. It was times like this that Jack wished that he could run. Or carry a firearm. Or even just a small knife.

"Don't you have some work to do?" Jack asked sharply, not stopping, not turning around to face the other man.

"I missed you too, darling." John drawled, picking up his pace so that he was right next to Jack. The profiler kept his eyes straight ahead, knowing better than to call John on one of the many pet names that he had for him. They were all annoying.

Jack continued to walk until he was in the small break room, which was void of any donut or coffee-crazed police. He then turned and looked at John head on, allowing his anger at the situation to leak into his voice. "Look, whatever motive you have for being here – get rid of it. This is a serious case John, not time for you to fuck around and play your little mind games just so you can come out on top. This is more than just some kidnapper or druggie case – this killer is psychotic."

"I resent that – I don't always like to top, bottoming can be fun if you know the right people." John said, the innuendo sliding effortlessly from his mouth, accompanied by a smirk. Jack was not amused.

"Oh Jackie boy, you think I'm here for you, don't you? Go without ol' John for two an' a half years and you start to regret leaving. You shouldn't assume that you're the center of my universe, love." John said, poking a single finger into Jack's chest.

The profiler angrily swatted it away. "You're the one who brought 'us' up – which doesn't exist anymore, by the way. I'm in a relationship – a _healthy_ one."

John snorted. "Wait, is it that same loser journalist that you dumped me for? Thought he would leave you after he found out you were fucking on the side."

Jack couldn't take it anymore. His fist formed before he could think, and he lashed out, catching John on the edge of his chin. The private detective laughed as he was thrown backwards a step, bringing his hand up to his chin to feel the damage. There would be a bruise in the morning. "You didn't tell him, did you? Aren't all high-and-mighty as you think you are. You think you're better than me, but you really aren't Jack."

The profiler responded by dropping his cane and grabbing both sides of John arms and running him into the plaster wall of the break room. "Don't you dare, John. And if you go anywhere near Ianto or even _think_ about talking to him while you're here, I'll hurt you."

"Scared what he'll do when he finds out he wasn't enough?" John whispered. Before Jack could retaliate, John had leaned forward and mashed his lips to Jack's. For a second, Jack stood there, frozen in shock, as John's lips moved against his. Then the other man's tongue swept across his teeth, and letting out a betraying groan, he opened his mouth.

Caught in the moment, Jack retaliated with attacks of his own. His hands around John's biceps began to move lower, and he pressed himself harder against the other man. He felt John's one hand in his hair while his other slid down to the edge of his shirt. He did _that thing_ with his tongue, and Jack wasn't able to hold back another moan of pleasure. He felt John harden against his body, and the man's free hand start to wildly grope him.

Jack pulled back as if he had been stung, eyes wide. He was panting hard, continuing to walk backwards, trying to get as much space between him and the other man as possible. And the whole time John was just standing there, that damn smirk plastered all over his face as his arms crossed his chest. "Guess he still isn't."

Jack was still too shocked at his body's own betrayal to say anything back as John pushed off the wall and bent over to retrieve Jack's cane, which lay abandoned on the floor. He gave Jack a wink before placing the long piece of wood on the table and swaggering out of the room. At the door he stopped and turned, a look of triumph on his face. "Bikini-Cop killer's a Speedo-Cop killer – just thought I'd let you know. Gets a bit complicated addressing him without pronouns."

Then John disappeared from sight. It took several uninterrupted seconds for Jack to get his power of speech back, and when he did, there was only one word that he could use to express himself.

"Fuck."

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**Reviews are loved.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Oh god, I am SO sorry! I was supposed to upload this yesterday, and I literally forgot about it until I woke up this morning and was all like -gasp- ...oops. Sorry - Will you forgive me?**

**Thanks to my reviewers and silent stalkers, and my beta, Jooles. **

**Find me on twitter and LJ as kausingkayn.**

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Ianto Jones wasn't one for surprises. He hated it when Jack would call and tell him he would be home at ten, then not show up until eleven. He didn't like those game shows where the host would walk around and randomly ask people on the street questions for an equally random chance to earn a thousand pounds. He despised last minute dates or secret trips to places that he didn't know until he got there. Ianto didn't like it when things happened around him that he hadn't been told ahead of time, or figured out.

Which was why, when he decided to just 'pop-in' on Jack for lunch at the police station, there really was no last minute decision about it. Ianto had planned ahead of time, calling a local fish and chips place and giving them his order in advance , letting the correct people at the office know that he was going to step out for about an hour around lunch time, and making sure that he was appropriately dressed for the cool temperature that the station was always kept at.

He also wasn't a man who did things just because. Every step needed a reason, every move a motive. For any normal bloke, it would have been enough of a reason just to say that they wanted to surprise their significant other at work with a lunch that doesn't consist of day old sandwiches and bagels left over from the morning coffee run. But small things like those weren't important to a man like Ianto Jones. He needed a real reason. Which was why he decided to do some reconnaissance while he was there. He knew for a fact that police were more likely to talk about a case while in the safety of their own environment. He also knew that, of all the police cases he had ever taken an interest in, this was not one to ignore – mainly because he was the 'bad guy.'

So when he left his desk at exactly five to noon and stopped by the chippy to grab his double order, there was a motive behind every step he took.

Ianto managed to arrive at the police station at exactly fifteen after – a good time to make it seem like he had bought the second lunch on a whim and just showed up without that perfectly planned reason. He knew that Jack liked to have lunch at the conventional time, and exactly where he would eat. He gave small smiles and nods to the police who knew him, and ignored those who didn't. They didn't matter – he wasn't there for them.

Ianto signed in on the visitor's log, his eyes scanning the other names out of habit. He dodged the attempts of conversation that a female officer was trying to engage him in, and continued on his way back. The station always caused Ianto's brain to go on red alert, even more this particular visit. Maybe it was because the body of the last man he had killed was currently sitting on a slab down in the morgue, or maybe it was because the 'demented bastard' that he overheard everyone whispering about was him. He inwardly chuckled a bit at that – none of them had any idea how close they were to the man they were looking for. It was quite ironic, actually. He thought it would be even funnier if he was the one working for the police, not his boyfriend.

He made it to the break room three minutes and twenty-two seconds after entering the building. True to his thoughts, Jack was sitting in the corner of the room, reading over a report and munching on a halfway stale bagel. There was a pen between his right hand fingers, and every once in a while he would make a note with it. As Ianto got closer he saw the page was covered in the scribble.

Ianto managed to get close enough to touch Jack without the man realizing he was there. The journalist announced his presence by dropping the bag of food on top of the police report.

Jack jumped and let out a strangled yelp, his hand halfway to the gun that wasn't there before realizing who exactly it was that just interrupted his deep thought. "Damn it, Yan!"

Ianto's only response was to sit down opposite of the profiler and reach into the bag. He pulled out the napkins first, and spent time laying them out unfolded on the table, creating a makeshift tablecloth. Another one was tucked into the neck of his shirt, protecting his clothes from any stray drops of grease or chunks of food that decided they wanted to attack him. Then he took out the two small paper containers that were full to the brim and steaming. He sat one next to Jack, and started to eat the other.

"This is unexpected." Jack mumbled once he had taken a large bite of his food. Crumbs fell to his lap, and Ianto suppressed a wince as he watched the man use his greasy fingers to brush them away.

"You've been stressed – thought it would help." Ianto said simply by way of an answer.

Jack nodded and gave a small smile, and Ianto realized that he wanted to get back to whatever it was he had been working on – he would bet money that it was the case, and Ianto wasn't a betting man.

"What are you working on?" he asked in what he hoped was an innocent manner.

Jack looked back up from the paper and swallowed his unnecessarily large bite of food. "New case – that body I told you about Saturday morning. Turned out he wasn't the only victim."

Ianto raised an eyebrow, trying to convey intrigue. "Really?" he said. "Double homicide?"

Jack snorted. "More like minor genocide. We could be dealing with a serial killer, Yan. In Cardiff."

So it _was_ his bodies that the police had found out in the country. "Found anything useful?"

"Nothing." Jack said, and Ianto heard the bitterness fill his voice. "Damn guy created the perfect crime scene. He's got to be some kind of twisted genius – the body dump was perfect. Only mistake was attempting to dump it during the storm. If it wasn't for that, we'd never have even known it happened."

Ianto couldn't help but glow a little bit at Jack's unintentional praise. He knew that his extracurricular activities were flawless, but it was the first time that someone else had admitted to it, even though their intentions weren't exactly positive. "So you don't have any leads?"

Jack snorted and leaned back, pushing the papers away and letting his pen drop to the table. "You wanna know what's more frustrating than knowing that there is a killer out there who has been getting away with murder for four years? Knowing that the chances of stopping this guy are slim to none."

Four years? Ianto almost laughed out loud at that one, but he was surprised enough that they had managed to find his conquests going back that far so he didn't blame them that they hadn't thought to look outside of Cardiff. Still, he had gotten good information out of Jack. "I'm sure re-reading the same information over and over again isn't going to help. You need to just take a step back, and treat this like any other case."

That was a line directly from one of those old FBI investigation shows that ran on one of the American channels late at night. It sounded full of emotion when he had watched it, and couldn't really think of anything else to say. Jack didn't seem to find any fault in it, which was good.

"I'm sending another tech out to the field tomorrow, along with a team to check the warehouse that's a mile down the road. It seemed like as good of a place as any. Maybe we'll get lucky and this guy did mess up. Damn rain got rid of all the tire tracks and footprints though." He let out a small smile took another bite of his food before standing up. "Thanks for the lunch, Ianto. It helped."

Ianto nodded and stood up as well, repackaging his mostly untouched food and placing it neatly in the bag. He checked the clock on the wall – he'd have enough time to eat in his car before going back into work. "Know what time you'll be home tonight?"

"Dunno – I'll call." Jack shrugged. They gave each other a chaste kiss, and then Ianto left.

There was something off about the entire conversation – and it didn't have to do with the case. Jack's mind was preoccupied by something; he wasn't normally so forthcoming with information that was obviously not meant to get out to the public. So far, they had managed to keep things under wraps; minor news stations still running the story that the body found in the pigpen was a single homicide and not the workings of a Cardiff serial killer. It wouldn't be like that for long though. Ianto would make sure of it.

He was so deep in his thoughts he didn't notice the man until he was about to bump into him. He muttered an apology, then stopped when the man attempted to strike up a conversation with him.

"Oi, watch it – wait. Haven't seen you around here before. One of those tech-geeks, are yah?"

Ianto paused and turned, ready to dismiss the theory that he worked at the station and hesitated. The man wasn't wearing police clothes, but he sounded as if he belonged here – something that Ianto didn't. That meant that he must have been a consultant, like Jack. A consultant that was more than likely brought in for the biggest case that Cardiff had participated in since Canary Wharf. A consultant whom Ianto knew nothing about – he needed to change that.

So he gave a small smile and held out a hand. "Ianto Jones. Can't say I've seen you around either."

The man's light grey eyes widened slightly in recognition, and strongly took the hand Ianto offered. "John Hart – serial killer hunter."

Ianto raised an eyebrow at the title, causing John to laugh. "I was tryin' it out, getting' a feel. I heard that two makes it official."

"Another notch on your bedpost?" Ianto retorted dryly.

"Depends on which bedpost we're talkin' 'bout, mate." John spat back just as fast, before chuckling. "Jack told me you had a sense of dry humour – never told me you were of eye-candy status too."

The only sign that Ianto was perturbed about this man knowing Jack was the slight increase on pressure he applied to the handshake. The tighter grip he got back told him that the other man had picked up on it. Ianto withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket, his other free digits holding onto the bag of his now-soggy lunch. "Jack hasn't done the same for you, though. You know him?"

"Yeah, we were old partners." John smirked, leaving no doubt in Ianto's mind exactly what type of partners that he was talking about. It unsettled him greatly. There was something about the man in front of him, something dangerous. It would certainly throw a spanner in the works. Whereas the police station was incompetent enough – in Ianto's mind – to never get close to touching him, this man was something different.

"Have to go, pleasure meeting you." Ianto said, turning to go. He left before allowing John to get another word in edgewise. He didn't look back, but that didn't prevent him from feeling the pressure of those two grey eyes staring holes in him the whole way to the door.

**-xXx-**

Work was, for lack of a better word, slow. Other than the homicide there hadn't really been any big stories happening in the city–. and the police weren't talking about that; it didn't take very long for the reporters to realize that they weren't going to get anything out of the detectives on the case. Ianto had seen many a journalist approach Jack and Gwen looking for answers and come back with nothing. Gwen had the tendency to stare them down or yell at them until they were intimidated enough to leave her alone. Jack, on the other hand, charmed them off their feet. Any reporters that got close enough to Jack Harkness to try and weasel information about a case out of him ended up blushing to high heaven and having wet dreams about the man for the next week and a half – regardless of gender. It was the man's charisma?, and for that Ianto felt pity for the journalists. At least, he would have if he cared enough.

As it was, the complete lack of interesting stories and police cooperation gave Ianto a great opportunity – one that he planned on taking. When he got back to the news station he locked himself in his office and got to work. His desktop computer fired up, and he spent the three minutes twelve seconds it took for the welcome screen to load up to get his thoughts in order. This detective, John Hart – he was a wild card, the first word to be taken literally. Even from the few moments he had confronted him, Ianto sensed something very dangerous about the man; the same kind of feeling you get while watching a tiger prowl in its cage at the zoo while you pray that the thin sheet of wire that made up the fence was enough to keep you safe.

Ianto went without hesitation to the most trusted search engine. He typed in John's name, along with _detective_ and _serial killer_. He got instant results. Online articles about the London Lyncher popped up on screen, and Ianto spent precious time skimming over the articles. Turned out he had been the lead consultant on the case – it was a few years ago, and Ianto was surprised to see another name pop out of the jumble of letters – Detective John Smith. So, the police chief had worked with John? That would explain why he had been hired.

Reading on Ianto discovered that over the course of the six-month long investigation, John had not only uncovered the last minute leads that led to the capture of the serial killer, but he also amassed a large amount of public complaints. Breaking and entering, file theft, forgery – just to name a few. He had done whatever was needed to catch the man, no thought of the consequences, and with dogged determination to succeed. That didn't settle well in Ianto's stomach – he had been relying on the slow moving investigation of the police to help him. They had all those legal hoops they had to jump through, and jurisdictions that they had to abide by. Most consultants of John's degree would move at the police's pace and not stomp on any toes – they would do just what their temporary badge would say – consult. But John, he was different. He jumped into the investigation feet first, and worked miles ahead of the police. When he was involved, the roles were reversed, and that was unsettling.

The one hundred percent confidence that Ianto had been holding onto was slowly starting to wane along with his confidence in his own plan, which felt even worse. . He had planned to refrain from killing for two months –longer if he manage it. If his urges got too bad he would make up a conference far away that he had to attend and deal with them someplace else. With the pattern of killings stopped, the police would be forced to question the existence of a serial killer at all and stop working to such a tight deadline. Soon there would be just one unlucky detective or constable that was stuck reading over the file until they memorized every line. Eventually though, without any new bodies or leads, they would drop the case and it would become just another unsolved cold case. Ianto Jones would then be able to continue being the greatest serial killer there never was, and find a new way to dispose of the waste left from his extra curricular activities.

But that all changed now. Because even if the police filed the case as incomplete and lost it within the archives, there would always be a pair of sharp, dangerous grey eyes on the lookout. Waiting, watching for any signs that there was something wrong. He was completely convinced that Cardiff had its own serial killer, and his constant investigations, if not his word alone, would keep the cops wondering. Ianto liked to take his time while killing, enjoying what he did under his cloak of anonymity. But while there was that shred of doubt, that sliver of worry in the polices' minds, he would have difficulty remaining anonymous. The police would continue to monitor the missing person's list and if the pattern remained, they would keep looking. Ianto could maybe skip one month without loosing control of his perfectly built world, but monthly trips to London or some other busy city would start to look suspicious to Jack. Then the digging would begin, and he would find out everything that Ianto had worked so hard to keep hidden.

No, it would be a dangerous path to continue on; being the silent little serial killer who sat back and watched things unfold in front of him. He had stayed silent too long, allowing his dark side – no, his _true_ side – to come out and play just occasionally. Now it was time to embrace who he really was, and to let the police – and all of Cardiff - know exactly who it was they were messing with.

And he would start with Detective John Hart.

Ianto did another search, this time just with the detective's name, minus the 'serial killer' taped to the end. This time, he got a lot more interesting personal information. There was nothing recent, but it seemed like three years ago John Hart had been a totally different man. He was still a detective, but without serial killer capture under his belt it seemed like he wasn't as well known, and the amount of articles that carried his name dropped significantly. However, there was one that very much caught Ianto's interest. It was a news in brief, small, maybe one hundred, two hundred words maximum. He did them all the time – they were to take up the little white space that was left after the big stories were formatted and ready to print.

The article talked about Private Detective John Hart, and his problem with negative influences. There was a short sentence detailing that he was found in a hotel room by a maid, passed out with evidence of several illegal substances. He had been checked into a long-term rehabilitation facility, and his agency was to be put on hold during his absence. Obviously, he hadn't been available to comment, so instead there was a small picture of him. He looked completely different than the John Hart that Ianto had conversed with only hours ago. Instead of his natural, dull red hair colour, it had been died platinum blonde, and stuck up all over the place. It was difficult to tell from the black and white grains of the newspaper his skin tone, bit it was startling white on the paper. His hand was in front of his face in a classic avoidance pose, and Ianto could make out the remnants of fingernail polish on his nails, along with eyeliner surrounding both eyes. There was a clearly outlined scar in the shape of a Y on his left eyebrow, and Ianto had to back away from the screen for a moment to recall the man's face from earlier. Yes, there had been a faint scar there.. The picture was from the chest up, and Ianto realized that John must have gone through a leather phase.

He looked like one of those people that your parents tell you to stay away from if you passed them on the street – nothing like the well-groomed and accurate dresser that the man had been today. Ianto allowed a thought to slip through his barriers, and immediately his lip curled up in disgust at his own betrayal.

He was rather hot, though.

Ianto minimized the article and opened a new browser, this time knowing what he was searching for. "Torchwood Rehabilitation Center" he typed in, rolling his eyes at the title of the institute. They had to be all professional and political about it, didn't they? It wasn't exactly a state-of-the-art facility – something that Ianto would have expected, having a vague idea of what a private eye's monthly income would be. He was actually quite surprised that the place was still running. Interesting. He took a few seconds exploring the site, then went to the employee login page. His eyes shifted unconsciously towards his large glass window wall, almost as if daring anyone to come and disturb him. Satisfied, Ianto reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small USB chip, which he plugged into his computer. Several seconds and a ding later, he was in.

Ianto bypassed everything, searching specifically for John's file. He opened it, and read quickly. He wouldn't make the amateur mistake of copying the file – there was more than likely a silent alarm that would alert whoever was manning the computers of confidentiality breach. You got all sorts of people coming to rehab facilities.

Turned out that John had been admitted to the place several times, only once or twice at his own choice – those times he was in and out in a week. Drugs, smoking, drinking, self harm, the list went on. Ianto read carefully through all of the reports of his progress, and nurse's notes – the kind of medication supplied; it seemed like useless information, but Ianto never knew when it could come in handy – might as well take advantage of it when it was there to be taken advantage of.

But it was when he got to the release forms that Ianto stopped reading. The signature on the bottom of the form was not the scrawl of John Hart had used to check himself in, but something else entirely. Ianto felt the breath go out of his body, and for one of the very few times in his life, he was caught off guard.

The man that had signed John out of the rehabilitation clinic was Jack Harkness.

Ianto sat still there for two minutes five seconds, each tick of the clock being counted in his head. He dug his elbow into his side in order to feel the stopwatch in his pocket, trying to calm down – to find his bearings. Then his lip started to twitch and his fingers dug deep into the wood of his desk, the digits throbbing painfully at the constant force. It was personal now.

**-xXx-**

John Hart entered his apartment a little before midnight. He was tired, worn out, and slightly more than a little bit drunk. He'd spent his day at the police station going over the file that the police had managed to scrounge together about the mysterious killer. There wasn't really any solid evidence against the man, but there was a bunch of circumstantial guessing, as John liked to put it. They had a pretty good idea how the latest victim was killed, and they had jumped to the conclusion that it was how the rest of the people were murdered too – something that John agreed with. People like that, who kill on a time schedule, they end up turning out to be pretty picky characters. There is a certain way everything must be done when it comes to their victims – a ritual. Whether it was because of some twisted religion or just because they were fucked up, the killings would always be routine, but that was where they always made their mistake. Because with routine comes complacency, and with complacency comes mistakes.

Jack had worked up a pretty decent rough sketch of the man's profile – rough meaning that most of the details were vague. Abused or around abuse as a child or young adult. That narrowed things down. The crime lab was working up more sufficient data, such as the height of the killer based on the angle and depth of the fibers found around the only whole victim's neck. Of course, that information would only be useful if the man was, in fact, standing when he killed the victim, which John thought unlikely. Jack was sending out a few shirts to check out that warehouse, thinking it might be a possible scene for the killing, something John also agreed with. It would have to be a spot secluded and close to the dumping grounds.

John shed his jacket and walked the short distance to the fridge, pulling out a beer and waiting only long enough to pop the top before taking a long, refreshing gulp. The apartment he lived in now was large – larger than the one he had before he (mostly) cleaned himself up. That thought made him pause and John allowed his mind to travel into dangerous territory. If the private detective had been asked what the best years of his life were, John wasn't sure that he would be able to answer. Professionally, he would have said these past few, starting with the day that he had helped bring in the London Lyncher. That case brought him to the height of his career and the best few professional years he had lived. It had brought him high paying clients and a nice apartment that was situated halfway between Cardiff and London.

But personally, John would have had to go back a couple years, to the time when he was in and out of rehab clinics, the only jobs he was able to get a hand on being small time kidnapping cases and missing cars – even those only falling into his laps when the clients were poor and desperate enough to deal with the odor of drugs, smoke and alcohol that seemed to follow him around like a cloud. But while he had been physically and mentally hurting, he had been emotionally happy. Because it had been Jack who came to get him those nights that he found himself passed out in a bar, or beat up on the street because he had been unable to pay his dealer for the drugs. It was Jack who checked him into rehab, and came in the middle of the night to comfort him when he didn't know what to do anymore.

John pulled himself out of those dark memories before he went any further down that road, setting his jaw in defiance and staring at his half-empty bottle of beer before tipping it down the sink. He watched the poisonous liquid fall down the drain, and let out a short laugh, because he had to either do that, or cry.

John knew that he shouldn't have thought about Jack – it only opened up old wounds. But he couldn't stop. He had kissed Jack earlier that morning out of some kind of twisted desperation. He needed to convince himself that it really was over between the two of them, that Jack really was as happy as he said he was with Ianto. John had expected to be pushed away within mere milliseconds of contact, yelled at, slapped, maybe even punched (again). But Jack had _kissed back_. And that changed things.

And then, there was that odd conversation he had had with Ianto Jones himself. There was something off about that man – something less than human. It hadn't been the words that were exchanged, or even the man's body language that had caused John to get a small seed of doubt. No, there was nothing outward about the man that suggested he was anything but a loving boyfriend and annoying journalist.

But John had looked into his eyes. He had taken a gaze into those two deep pools of blue, and was given a glimpse of something that he knew he should never have seen. It had caused the hairs on the back of John's neck to stand up. There was something seriously wrong with Ianto Jones, and John was going to find out what. Whether it was his detectives' instincts or his jealousy and feelings for Jack that fueled this desire, it didn't matter.

John pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a few numbers, walking into the bedroom of his apartment and ridding himself of his gun and shirt as he listened to the phone ring. It was picked up on the fourth ring.

"_I told you not to call me anymore._" the voice said, the sleepiness evident throughout the feminine voice, letting John know that he had awoken the woman. He switched the hand holding his phone and wiggled out of his jeans.

"That's not what you were saying a few nights ago, sweetheart." he drawled. "Ask me what I'm wearin'."

"_John, please. Just leave me alone. I don't have time for your games anymore!"_ she replied, the pleading that filled her words not slipping past John's ears.

He rolled his eyes, then got down to business. "Look, Lois, I just need a tiny little favor, I'll reward you – you know I'm good for it." The last half of his sentence was said with a more lecherous tone.

There was the sound of a gust of static, and John realized she was sighing. "_I can't! Last time I was almost caught! They knew someone was in the system._"

"This is important, Lois. It's for a case I'm working." John lied, hoping she had heard about him being called in for a huge case at the Cardiff station.

Another sigh. "_This is it John, I mean it. I'm changing my number after this._"

"Thrill of the chase, darlin'." John replied, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. "I need you to run a background check on one Ianto Jones. Black hair, blue eyes, editor for Cardiff Gazette."

Silence from the other end. _"…I'll have it for you end of next week, two weeks at the most."_

"You're gorgeous!" John exclaimed.

"_Goodnight._" was the only retort.

John snapped the phone shut before the dial tone would reach his ears, and ran his hand through his naturally red hair before turning and heading toward the small bathroom. He was thinking about dying it again – he had enjoyed the platinum blonde look while it had lasted…

With the water from the shower pelting down on his head, John missed the sound of his cell phone ringing. It fell silent several seconds later, then beeped once more, alerting him of a voicemail.

"_Detective Hart – this is Owen Harper from the Cardiff Gazette. The town is interested as to why Britain's most notorious serial killer hunter is in town, and wondered if I could get a few quotes…_"

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**Review?**


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Sorry for this being so late in the day. ^_^ Here's another chapter, hope that you guys enjoy! Special thanks to my reviewers and silent stalkers, you guys are awesome! And also, a little bit of news - this story was nominated for a Children of Time award!**

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Jack limped down the police station hallway, coming from the lab and wandering aimlessly until he could find a decent cup of coffee. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn and rubbed his eyes with his fist, attempting to remove the sleep from his eyes. He checked his watch and cursed, not realizing how long he had been down in the dark dungeon. Two weeks ago he had asked Tosh to run his profiles through the system as a last ditch effort to see if he could spot the needle in the hay stack – or in this case, the grain of sand hiding within thousands of diamonds. As expected, the computer came up with hundreds of results, and Jack had taken to spending any spare moments he had shifting through them by hand, hoping that he would happen upon someone who would raise the mental red flag. He knew he was getting desperate. He had used his lunch break to slip into the lab and look through a few more files. He must have fallen asleep, though, and stayed that way for several hours. Toshiko – that wonderful girl – must have seen him sleeping, but chose not to wake him. Half of him wanted to thank her, the other half wanted to yell at her. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately with this case lurking constantly in the back of his mind. It hadn't helped that Ianto had been acting more distant than normal lately. In fact, now Jack thought about it, he realized that this estrangement had started right after John came to town. That brought on a whole other string of thoughts that Jack really didn't want to deal with.

The case was, simply stated, a dead end. They had exhausted every effort, gone down every road, and they had nothing more than they had started with. Male killer, method of execution being strangulation by unknown object, monthly abductions, efficient way of clean-up, only connection being abuse, probably no previous record, probably Cardiff resident. Hell, the mayor fit the description. Jack worked better when he was able to see the faces, live the crime scene. Unfortunately for him, they had neither. They had long ago given up searching the warehouse for evidence. There was simply nothing to be found. Despite this Jack still had a feeling in his gut that it was where the crimes had taken place. The small piece of fabric that had been found attached to the pigpen – one of the first real leads they had – had been tested and lead to a large general store where everyone and their aunt shopped. It had also been run for prints, but either the rain had washed away any DNA or whoever they were dealing with was an extreme neat freak, because it was miraculously free of any condemning evidence. Jack knew that the whole station was waiting for a miracle, but knowing that they failed in their duty.

Jack sighed and ran a tired hand through his hair, which, at the moment, was messy not through careful styling, but because he hadn't had any time to fix it that morning. It was helped by his impromptu nap in the lab. Jack felt like a mess, and his leg had been acting up lately as well. All of which was making him ready to blow by the time he came across the Chief's door.

He would have kept walking - forever on the search for caffeine – but he stopped, his head turned sideways at the strange scene that was playing out in front of him. Pressed up against the door, her ear to the wood, was none other than Detective Gwen Cooper. She had a look on her face of pure concentration, her tongue protruding slightly from between her lips. Her hands were flat against the door, and her eyes were squinting, as if it would help improve her hearing.

Jack had half of mind to just walk off and leave her to her methods. But the other – and stronger – half of Jack's mind was instantly curious. As always, that side won out.

It was obvious that Gwen was so focused on what was happening inside of the Chief's room that she didn't notice he was standing there. Deciding that he might as well have some fun with it, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and pressed down the speed dial number that was Gwen's. Holding the phone up to his ear, he smirked, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long. Three seconds later he watched as his best friend jumped several feet in the air, and her face turned red as she tried desperately to hide her squeal of surprise. She backed away from the door, her hands shakily grabbing her phone, opening it and answering out of breath before turning and finally seeing Jack standing there. Her face shifting from surprise to murderous, she snapped her phone shut and approached him.

"Sorry, bad time?" Jack said, unable to keep his voice from cracking under the pressure of his pent up laughter. Gwen huffed and put her hands on her hips in classic Cooper resistance.

"Shudup, you." she said, slapping him on the shoulder with mock anger even though it was obvious that she was attempting to subdue a smile herself.

"You seem to be taken off guard, PC, everything alright?" Jack questioned, this time unable to stop a chuckle from escaping his lips. Just like Gwen's habit of teasingly calling him 'Doctor,' Jack enjoyed pulling her leg with mentions of the times when she was just a PC and not as comfortable with her job as she was now. The humour left Gwen's face at this, and she sighed.

"You wouldn't be laughing if you knew what was going on in there." she replied, jerking her thumb toward the door.

Jack's demeanor instantly changed, going from the slightly playful. back to his tired, worn out, suspicious self. He winced as a thought came across his mind and leaned forward, almost scared to say it. "Another body?"

"Oh, god no." Gwen said, and Jack let out a sigh of relief. There was always that. They were nearing the end of the month deadline, and Jack knew that somewhere out there, the killer was getting antsy, more than likely preparing to kill again. "But it's bad. Chief's chewing out John now."

Now Jack did let out a groan. The man had been nothing but trouble – at least on the personal front. The past several weeks had consisted of warring off advances and preventing any more contact between him and Ianto. John had wasted no time in telling him that he had spoken to Ianto – the silent threat that he would seek him out again constantly lingering between them. It wasn't easy. The only thing that was preventing Jack from hitting him again was the fact that they needed him on this case. John was the one who did the legwork and figured out exactly which store the piece of material had been sold from. John had pointed out several things that Jack had missed when creating his psych evals, and he had been tracking down a lot more leads. Just like the police investigation, they had all lead to dead ends, but it showed how dedicated he was to the case.

"What did he do now?" Jack asked, sighing.

Gwen frowned and her hands formed fists before resting on her hips. "You're joking, right?"

The blank look on Jack's face was all Gwen needed. She sighed, then looked around. Andy was walking by, a newspaper up by his face as he read an article on page three. Without saying anything, Gwen took the paper from his hands and folded it back to the front page before cramming it in Jack's face.

Andy frowned, then rolled his eyes and threw up his hands, muttering something along the lines of "'Hey, Andy, can I borrow your paper?' 'Oh, sure Gwen.' Thanks, mate!' no problem.'" as he walked away.

But Jack didn't hear any of that. All he could focus on was the article that dominated the front page of the _Cardiff Gazette._

'Terror in Cardiff' the headline read. Below it was an article that was written around the largest picture of John Hart that Jack had ever seen. It looked like it had been taken recently. The article itself was about the serial killer that the police had been keeping under wraps for the better part of three weeks. It ran the information that the police leaked about the body found in the hog pen, and continued to give more information – the aspects of the case that the Chief made everyone swear to keep silent on penalty of being booted from the case and gaining suspension until it was over. Jack felt his chest tighten further as the article went on to say that the police were at a dead end over the investigation, and that private detective John Hart wouldn't stop until the killer was apprehended. There were even quotes from the man himself. The end of the page told the reader that the article continued on page four, and that the author of this piece was none other than Owen Harper.

The same Owen Harper whose editor was Ianto Jones – every single story that he wrote had to be edited and signed off by Ianto before it was sent for publishing. The same Ianto Jones who had promised Jack that he would keep any articles about the serial killer under wraps until they knew who it was they were dealing with.

Jack didn't know how to react. A small part of his mind – the part that was in control in normal circumstances, told him that he needed to slow down and find out everything about what was going on before getting angry. But that piece of his brain was currently being overloaded by lack of sleep, frustration with the case, and the fact that his leg was starting to throb painfully. And this was far from normal circumstances. Jack had his mobile out before he could think about what he was doing, and was holding down the speed dial button so hard his thumb turned white.

Across the street, in a small, unnoticeable car that was parked in a strategic location, a mobile phone started to ring. The owner, a man with stark black hair and deep blue eyes, turned his head and glanced at it, nodding, as if expecting it to ring. His hands didn't move from their position on the dash, where he held a pair of mini binoculars. These binoculars were positioned just right, so that if one was to look through them, that person would have a great view of the Chief's office, if they were willing to excuse the blurry spots that were caused by the half-open blinds. To be specific, they were pointed at the cocky man with red hair that was sitting in the Chief's guest chair, acting surprisingly calm for the man who was being chewed out by his employer.

The man with the binoculars watched his phone until it finished ringing; his lips turning slightly downward as he listened to the voice message play out.

"_Damn it, Ianto! Answer the phone! When exactly were you going to tell me about Owen's little article? Do you have any idea what this means? You told me you were going to keep this under wraps, and then I find out that one of your journalists publishes the article? What – "_

There was some static, and Jack's voice grew distant. He heard some arguing, and a feminine voice – that would be Gwen. She was probably acting as the mediator, like she always did, trying to get Jack to calm down and take a step back from the situation. Then the line beeped, and Ianto was no longer privy to the scene that was unfolding outside the Chief's office.

Ianto let go of the binoculars with one hand and reached for his mobile, intending to erase the message. Instead, he played it again, his lips tugging downward as he listened to Jack's voice. The man sounded hurt – betrayed even. Something inside of Ianto pulled at his stomach, and a short wave of – was is guilt? – overtook him. The slight downturn of his lips morphed into a full-fledged frown, and Ianto pulled his hand away from his phone as if it was radioactive. He sat back in the seat of his car, and let the binoculars fall to his lap. He had never felt that before – he had lied to Jack hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the course of their relationship. So why did it bother him now?

Ianto frowned, and dismissed the feeling, shoving it deep into the dark pits of his soul, as he found himself having to do more and more often as time went on. He picked the binoculars back up and refocused them – he would have time to sort out his 'feelings' later. Now, he had a plan to see through, and Ianto was nothing if not punctual.

Jack reached for his cell phone, but Gwen continued to keep it just out of his reach, her one hand closed tightly around the device, her other placed out in front of her to stop her old partner from advancing. "Jack, Jack – stop! What the bloody hell's wrong with you?"

She frowned, and looked the man over – she realized how dark the circles under his eyes were, and properly noticed the worn out look on his face. "Jack, you look like shit."

"Thanks." he mumbled, not even in the right mood to inject some mild humour into the one word sentence. Gwen stopped fighting and her arms went limp, all thoughts of the case and the ill-timed newspaper article fleeing her mind.

"Jack, when was the last time you had some real sleep?" she asked, her voice automatically gaining that motherly lilt. Jack would sometimes joke with her, telling her that if her and Rhys ever decided to get married, she would make a wonderful mother.

Jack stopped reaching for his cell phone and clammed up, biting his lip as he thought. Several moments passed without anything being said between the two. Finally, the profiler shrugged. "I don't know."

Gwen sighed, her thumb making circles on Jack's phone as she thought. "Jack, you need to take a break or something. I've never seen you get angry at Ianto before – you know, he might not have even known about the article, did you think of that? We're trying to catch a genius serial killer here. If you can't even keep things straight with your boyfriend, can we trust you with this?"

Jack opened his mouth to retort, fire burning in his eyes at the accusation, but Gwen shut him off.

"No – I don't want to hear it. You're a bloody consultant on this case Jack, and you're under the Chief's orders and mine. Go home, get some sleep, eat a good breakfast, and fix whatever you probably screwed up with that voicemail with Ianto, ok? Then I want you in here tomorrow morning ready to kick some arse." There was a steel edge to Gwen's voice, and Jack knew that there was no way he was going to be able to persuade Gwen otherwise. And at that moment, he realized that he didn't want to fight with her. The exhaustion that he had been running from the past couple days suddenly caught up with him, and Jack found that it was difficult to continue standing up.

Gwen saw this, and stepped closer, resting her hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. "I'm worried about you, Jack. I know that having John here is bringing up bad memories – just remember that I'm on your side here, ok? If you want to talk about it, I'm always here. So is Ianto."

Jack frowned, but leaned into her touch all the same. "Ianto can never know the truth about John and me, Gwen. I don't know if we'd make it through that intact."

Gwen sighed, then pulled away, hearing the chairs in Chief's room make scraping noises on the floor – it seemed like, for the moment, the Chief was done yelling at John. "Go home Jack."

She gave a small smile, then turned and slipped through the door when it opened, passing John as he was on his way out. He shot her a leering grin which she pointedly ignored as she headed toward the eye of the storm to try and calm the Chief down and assess the damage. Jack tried to leave, not wanting to be caught in the private detective's sights. He didn't have the energy or the patience to deal with the man right now.

"Jack! Wait!" Seemed like he wouldn't be getting his wish.

Against his better judgment, Jack turned around, face set in a determined expression, ready to tell John off for both leaking to the press and wasting his time. "I don't have time for this." Jack said shortly, his body already in the process of turning itself around.

John reached out and grabbed Jack's right arm with his hand, initiating contact. He felt the heat of the man's touch through his shirt and froze.

"Look, Jack. This is important!" John's voice begged him, and something made Jack turn around again.

"Is it about the case?" Jack asked, figuring that the least he could do was humour the man. It would get over a lot faster than fighting with him, and while fighting him was a very appealing option, Jack just didn't have the energy.

"Well…" John trailed off, "not exactly. Wait!"

Jack had turned and started to limp towards the exit. This time, he didn't stop, forcing John to run after him. Jack waited until the man was right next to him to start talking again. "What the hell were you thinking? Talking to the press?"

John narrowed his eyes. "You too? I'm gonna say the same thing, so listen up, Jackie Boy. The wanker promised to sit on it until I gave him the go ahead. In return, I promised not to talk to any other lowlife story-chaser! I was as surprised as you are when I saw my face plastered on the morning news – though I do look sexy. I think they got my best side, don't you?"

Jack rolled his eyes, continuing to walk. They had reached his SUV by then, and Jack reached forward, pulling open the driver's door and laying his cane inside. John waited until Jack went to climb into it and pulled him back, shutting the door and pushing Jack against the car side. "Listen to me, Jack!"

Growling, Jack forced John off of him and pushed away from the side of the car, straightening up, one hundred percent ready to wail on John if he decided to try something like that again. John realized this as well and sighed, putting his hands up in the air in surrender, and giving his signature 'done with this bull-shit yet?' grin.

"I'm leaving." Jack stated, and turned his back on John. He once again opened the car door.

"So you don't want to know about eye-candy, then?" John's words were spoken in a sing-song manner, the way an older brother would talk to a younger sibling when holding their sweets just out of reach.

Jack froze, his hand on the car door. He took a deep breath then turned around, eyes blazing. "I told you to stay the hell away from Ianto!"

"Woah, didn't go near the prick." John said as he reached behind his back. When his hands came back into view, Jack saw that he was holding a slim folder that must have been tucked into his jeans' waistband. "Your boy is hiding something from you, Jack." John said, the regret in his voice genuine for once. "I asked for this on a hunch – a feelin' I got. Wished the whole time I was wrong. I really did."

John started to extend his arm, inching the file closer to Jack, waiting for him to take it. He didn't. "I hope you know about this, I really do."

"What are you talking about, John? Ianto and I, we are in a real relationship, ok? Not that _thing_ that we had." John winced, but Jack didn't stop.

"That wasn't healthy, and it wasn't real, ok? So leave. It. The fuck. Alone. I love Ianto, John – not you. I never loved you. I think I was too high off of the haze that followed you around to know any better. We're happy, and anything that you were able to find in that folder, I already know. Relationships aren't made out of lies, John – that's just you." Jack finished; out of breath and feeling so much better that he actually said those things.

John looked like he was either going to break down or punch him, so Jack was surprised when he shrugged, his manner eerily calm, as if they were discussing the weather. "Oh. Ok – so you know your precious 'Ianto Jones' changed his name and emancipated himself at sixteen?"

Jack took the file.

**-xXx-**

Ianto's car pulled up outside of his apartment complex at exactly five fifty. It took him two minutes to find a parking spot, one to walk into the building, another minute to wait for the elevator, two more to make it to his door. Which gave him four minutes to just stand outside and think. His bag on one shoulder, he reached his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his stopwatch, clicking the button on top. He let the soothing 'tick, tick, tick' wash over him as the mini vibrations spread through his hand. He closed his eyes and focused solely on the ticking. Nothing else existed but him and the stopwatch – eternally bound to stick to a perfect schedule, never late or wrong.

Wait.

Ianto's eyes wrenched open in surprise, and the blue orbs stared at the stopwatch, unsettled by what he had felt. The second hand ticked along as ever, the minute hand being dragged behind. The ticking remained ever constant. Except – Ianto could have sworn he felt it stall. An anomaly in the time – a mistake.

He frowned and pocketed the watch. His mind troubled over the occurrence, he unlocked the door and walked in.

It was six o'clock and one second.

He swung his bag over his head and gently placed it on the couch in an upright position, a perfect ninety degrees angle from the armrest. He bent over and untied his shoes, setting them next to the door. He frowned as he saw the state of array that Jack's shoes were in – thrown half-hazardly against the wall. He spent precious seconds righting them then took a shallow breath and turned, ready to face the world.

Jack must have heard the front door open and close again, for he was sitting up cross-legged on the bed, his eyes trained on the door, and subsequently Ianto, as the Welshmen entered the bedroom. This morning's newspaper was strewn out on the duvet –John's leering face staring up at the ceiling with his frozen eyes. A laptop, open and running, logged onto the Cardiff police's secure mainframe sat next to an unmarked, manila folder with papers stuffed unceremoniously inside.

Ianto's eyes connected with Jack's, and their gazes fighting for dominance. Jack looked away first – he always looked away first.

Ianto's hands reached up automatically and started to unbutton his shirt. Jack reached forward on the bed and picked up the newspaper, smoothing out the creases on the front page before holding it up for Ianto to see clearly. Several key words of the article had been highlighted, as well as the name of the journalist who had written it. Ianto's eyes swept over the article and spilled over the edge, moving from the inked words to the man holding them. Jack looked – for lack of a better word – horrible. His face was pale, and it was obvious from the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn't been sleeping properly. His eyes looked red and bloodshot, but Ianto knew that Jack hadn't been drinking – he didn't drink. He had shed his shirt and tie, leaving him with his trousers and white undershirt, minus his belt. But the worst thing of all was the distrust that was practically radiating from Jack's eyes. Ianto had seen anger, disappointment, and even on occasion hatred that would spill from the blue orbs, aimed at him – but _never_ had he seen distrust.

That feeling came again, gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Ianto blocked it out.

"Care to explain?" Jack asked, but it wasn't a question, Ianto knew he wasn't being given an option. Jack's voice was hard, and face set in grim determination. It was a mask that Ianto knew all too well, he'd donned it himself on countless occasions. But it was a personality that Jack showed only to those that he interrogated.

Ianto had finished undoing his shirt, but left it hanging on his shoulders. He bit his lip, because he thought it would add to the effect, even going to far as to place his hands precariously on his hips like some people do when they find themselves in a difficult situation. Then he opened his mouth, and words spilled out; identical to those that he had rehearsed as he followed persons of interest that day in the car he had rented. "I'm so sorry Jack. I was out of the office all day and my mobile died right before lunch. Owen – he skipped right over me. Brought me the article a few days ago. I told him to sit on it, but he went to the sports editor and got her to look over it. I was as surprised as you had to be when I saw it in the paper today."

He stressed all the right words, his voice sounding strained, adding an edge of anger when he brought up Owen's name. Ianto knew it was a flawless performance, backed up by an even more airtight alibi. He had told Owen that, because of his ties to the police station, he couldn't, in good faith, approve the peice for publishing. Owen had read between the lines and gone to the next highest editor on staff. If the police decided to waste their time and go down that road – which they wouldn't – Owen wouldn't rat him out. The man was an ass at the best of times, but he knew how the journalism business worked.

Jack relaxed a fraction, and the almost-frown disappeared from his face, but the mistrust was still evident. Ianto was prepared for another question about the article, but it never came. Instead, the man set the paper back onto the bed and reached for the mysterious folder. Ianto frowned, his brain searching for what it could possibly be.

He didn't have to wait long.

"You know what, Ianto? You never talk about your childhood." It was a statement that might have come up over dinner or as a request for an embarrassing story before going to bed. But Jack's voice was still cold, his body language still hostile. Ianto froze, mentions of his childhood throwing him off guard, his mind freezing, allowing the seconds to tick by without being accounted for. He mentally scrambled, trying to get back in control, trying to find the last number he had counted.

"I mean, I tell you stories from my youth all the time. All the shit I got into. But I've never _once_ heard you say anything about yours. Now that I think about it, you skip around any talk of parents too." Jack's eyes skimmed the papers hidden by the folder, but Ianto was sure it was just for effect. He had read everything on those pieces of papers, every inky letter.

"You know everything about me, Ianto. Everything. You know things that I've never talked about before. But all I know about you comes from the second half of your life. Why? What are you so ashamed of that you changed your own _name_?" He was yelling now, waving the file around. Ianto didn't have to guess anymore. He knew exactly what that file contained. All his perfectly rehearsed words flew out the window. His hands started to shake and all he wanted to do was turn and leave. Leave and run away before something happened. But he couldn't. He was stuck to the spot, unable to do anything but just stare at Jack and shake and scream inside his head. Then a thought popped into his mind – a single, small light that shone, and it started to un-thaw him. He opened his mouth.

"I don't know about John."

A simple sentence – five words. But they were the key. Jack stopped, whatever words that were on his lips died and it was his turn to sit there, stunned. His jaw opened and closed, but nothing came out.

Now it was Ianto's turn.

He moved forward and yanked the file out of Jack's hands so quickly the man didn't have any time to tighten his grip. He didn't even look inside – he just crumpled up the papers, curling his hands into fists. The paper protested and fought back, but Ianto was stronger. Then he let it fall to the floor, forgotten. He didn't dare look at the papers, look at the story the ink was telling. It was something that he had tried to forget all his life, but followed Ianto like a shadow, like the hands that wrapped around his neck like a collar – owning him. He looked at Jack then, with hard, cold eyes. No anger, no disappointment. Just cold indifference.

"He hurt me." was all that Ianto said – all he was able to say, but it was enough. He turned then, and headed out of the door.

"Ianto, wait." Jack's voice came at last, weaker than it had ever sounded, and apologetic. But Ianto didn't want that right now. He needed to be alone – he couldn't act anymore. Not today.

"Goodbye Jack." he said, then walked out of the apartment.

He made it all the way to his car before he broke down. He sat in the back seat and curled up into a small ball – in the fetal position. He had learned a long time ago that it was the safest and most protective stance one could adopt when they were being threatened. He hugged his knees tight to his chest and let the tears that he didn't know he could produce fall down his cold pale cheeks. The strong, dangerous man known as Ianto Jones slowly melted away, until all that was left was little Ifan.

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**Review?**


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Another day, another chapter. You get some good stuff in this one, if I may say so myself. ^_^ Please enjoy! Special thanks to my reviewers and silents stalker, because you guys are what keeps me writing. Also special thanks to Jooles, who is my wonderful beta.**

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He sat in the back of the bar, in a corner where light seemed to shrink away and darkness engulfed it – that, or the bulb had burnt out. He was alone, and no one dared to approach him. Despite the bar having table service, the waitresses let him walk to the bar if he wanted a refill or something to eat. He was hunched over his glass, his fingers slowly making their way around it as if they were mapping out every atom. His head was stooped over, his jacket never taken off. At a glance, he was a no-one wallowing in his sorrows. If one was to take a moment and really look at him, they would notice several things.

This first, and the most odd of them all, was the fact that the man was not drinking anything alcoholic. His glass was half full of cranberry juice, minus any spirits that one may usually add. The second thing – which wasn't the most odd, but definitely the most important – was that he had the most beautiful, albeit startling, blue eyes that one would ever see. And those blue eyes were watching a certain man at the center of the room.

This other man, unlike the strange one in the corner, wasn't there to be by himself or nurse whatever it was that had befallen him. He was definitely drinking, and he was definitely looking for someone to take home with him. His eyes were already slightly red, but it didn't cause him to slur his words; if anything, it made him more boisterous and snarky. Every woman and man in the joint got a wink as they walked by, and about one in every three was given an offer of a free drink. Those who were propositioned would stare at him for several seconds, taking in his red hair, chiseled cheekbones and the fact that he claimed he was a detective working on a dangerous case looking for a release. Pretty much everyone gave John a look that told him they thought it was a little more than creepy and then would walk away quite quickly, but some would accept.

Ianto watched all of this from his little corner of hell. He watched this as his thumb rubbed perfect circles into the glass, and his lips moved, silently counting, ever counting. He counted the number of people that John winked at, and the number who accepted his offer of a drink. He counted the seconds that went by between the encounters, and he kept time of how much longer he could go without making his move, without doing anything. He was on a very tight schedule. His stopwatch sat in his pocket, but he dared not touch it. It still unnerved him – a traitor in his jacket – how such a perfect thing could betray him by doing a thing such as skipping a second.

His cheeks were still streaked them his tears, and he hadn't yet been able to get his fingers to stop shaking. He needed a release – but not the kind that John was searching for. No, he needed something that would calm him, let him regain control, allow the darkness within him out before it tore him apart from the inside.

His hands shook even more at the prospect, and Ianto had to talk himself. Breathing in and out, counting as he did so. Always counting. His eyes never leaving John. Then – there was his chance.

He stood up and downed the rest of the sour drink, using it as his excuse. He carefully made his way around the private detective, in case the man suddenly found the urge to turn around. Everything would be lost if John saw him there.

Ianto made it to the bar undetected, and ordered the most complicated drink from the menu in order to buy himself some time. He slipped out his wallet and took the precious seconds to count out the exact amount his drink was,. That taken care of, he turned to position himself at the perfect angle; he was able to see John out of the corner of his eye, but sure that the man wouldn't see him unless he was purposefully looking for him.

John had ordered a drink when Ianto had decided to get up, and he watched it being prepared. Nothing difficult – beer with a chaser. Once finished, it was sat on the counter an arms length away from Ianto, waiting for the waitress to come and pick it up. They didn't make John get his own drinks.

Ianto dug his hand into his pocket, fingering the little pill that sat between the fabrics. It was a small thing – a weaker dose of Jack's medicine, only over the counter and not recommended with alcohol. John would start feeling dizzy, and then about an hour later, he would be knocked out wherever he decided to sit down until the spell passed. If everything worked, John would go back to his own apartment, out of commission until the next day.

He shifted several inches over, stretched, and in one fluid motion the pill sank to the bottom of John's beer bottle. With the bartender's back still turned towards him, Ianto turned and made his leave, not wanting to wait any longer in case John saw him. The door slammed on the way out.

**-xXx-**

Ianto sat in a large, overstuffed chair in the lobby of the Hilton Cardiff hotel, located in the city centre. He sat amongst a large family that had just arrived for vacation – they all looked extremely tired, some of it probably having to do with the fact that it was around nine o'clock at night, and from the sound of their voices, they were Americans. Add that to the jetlag, and Ianto found himself wasting time wondering how it was they were all still awake. The majority of the party was under twenty, and Ianto shivered. Not exactly the best age to be, in his book. At least they weren't loud.

Next to his overstuffed chair that looked extremely comfortable, but really wasn't, Ianto had brought with him a briefcase and a small suitcase. The briefcase had been in the back of his rented car since the morning that he had bought it at a general store. The suitcase had been a new addition, and the supplies that were inside of it had been purchased within the last hour – all from predetermined stores stretched across the Cardiff area. He'd made sure everything was a popular brand that could be found in half of the stores that were in the city. He was virtually untraceable.

He was waiting for a certain person to enter the front doors. They lived in Cardiff, but were coming to the hotel for a meeting of a personal nature. Ianto picked up his briefcase and unhooked the latches, opening it laptop style on his knees. He glanced at the plain manila folder and his thoughts shot back to earlier that evening. What was Jack doing now, he wondered? Would the man take his farewell as the end to their relationship? Ianto wasn't sure, but he would bet – no, he knew – that he had most likely moped for a bit before calling Gwen. Either that, or cleaned the house and set himself up on the couch incase Ianto came back that night. Like he was punishing himself. Ianto wondered how badly he had hurt Jack – if the man would ever forgive himself.

Ianto tore himself away from that train of thought and flipped open the folder to find a smug face looking back at him. Huw Sherman. The man had stood by as his sister was raped by his father over and over again, but didn't say anything. When it came to the courtroom, he wouldn't testify, and watched as his father talked his way out of it. She had been attacked, he said. The little girl was eight – her brother twelve.

Now, it was time for him to take the stand again, only Ianto wouldn't be as kind as the judge.

The man walked through the front door, Ianto's eyes following him. The Welshman closed his briefcase and stood up, grabbing his suitcase and extending the handle. For all intents and purpose, Ianto was just another one of the many who had arrived late at the hotel for an early business meeting. He walked slowly, timing himself so that he would walk by the front desk at the right moment to be able to hear the room number Huw was allocated. Ianto had found out, in his intensive research, that the man enjoyed monthly visits to expensive hotels, where he would hire a rent boy for the night. No wife who's life would be ruined by Ianto's quest – Huw had already screwed that up, with an ex who took almost half of his monthly earnings. Money, which he earned as a pencil pusher who looked at porn on his computer more than actually doing his work. Ianto knew that too.

He caught the room number – floor four, room fifty-six. He continued to walk at a normal pace and stepped into the lift. He pressed the button for floor four, and allowed the door to close all the way before leaning against the wall. His brow furrowed in concentration as the thought through the next phase of his plan. Ianto didn't like bringing other people into his plans. Normally it would be just him and his victim, and that was all. No witnesses made for a clean getaway. He already found himself missing the safety of his warehouse – but even that wasn't safe now. It never would be again. The moment the police thought something was wrong, that would be the first place they went, and Ianto couldn't be caught in the middle of everything. Not yet, anyway.

He needed to get a key card without confronting anyone – which was a difficult task. The lift dinged and he stepped out, pulling the suitcase behind him. He glanced down both hallways, looking for a chambermaid's trolly. When he saw none, he cursed gently under his breath, then headed toward the room.

There.

At the end of the hallway, several rooms past the one he was aiming for, a cleaner's trolly sat in the middle of the corridor. He took a breath, counted two seconds to steady himself, and approached it. Getting there, Ianto glanced inside the open room. The maid had her back to the door, and Ianto took advantage of this. The all access pass was hanging off the side of the trolly and he quickly plucked it before turning and heading back to room 456.

He stood in front of the room for twelve seconds, calming himself down, preparing himself for what was about to come. Then he unlock the door with the stolen keycard, and let himself in.

He glanced at the clock and subtracted time away from when he first stepped into the lift. He had anywhere from five to ten minutes, but he was going to pace himself for the five.

Ianto walked straight over to the bed, having spent time earlier studying the layout of the hotel. It was so nice of then to put up virtual room tours on their website. He got his supplies ready first, setting his suitcase down on the floor and unzipping it. He took out a set of handcuffs and threw them onto the bed, and grabbing a pair of thing plastic gloves as well. He stuffed those into the back pocket of his jeans, before closing the suitcase. The rest of the stuff inside was for later. He slipped it under the bed, determined to keep it out of sight until its need arose. Then he reached inside of his pocket and pulled out his stopwatch. He stared at it, needing to trust it, needing it to do its job. Then he placed it carefully on the bedside table, positioned just right so that he could touch the start button on top without having to exert any un-needed effort.

His preparations complete, Ianto switched his focus to his appearance. He took off his jacket and placed it neatly on the back of a chair, making sure to touch as little in the hotel room as possible. When morning came, there would be a swarm of forensic technicians scouting every inch of the room, and he wanted to make sure he left them absolutely nothing.

He walked back over to the bed in time to hear footsteps outside in the corridor, followed closely by the sound of a keycard slipping into the lock. His victim had arrived. Ianto climbed onto the bed and crossed his legs, lying back against the metal framework of the headboard. His fingers swiftly undid the buttons of his shirt without wasting a second on fumbling. He ran a hand through his hair to mess it up as Huw entered the room, and had his arms hooked over the top of the frame and a lazy look on his face by the time the man came into visual range.

"How'd you get in here?" Huw asked, not caring about the answer. Ianto stayed silent, using the time to soak in the appearance of his next victim. The man was skinny and blonde and looked for the entire world like a tramp. The cheap suit didn't hide the awkward way he walked in it, his tie looking more like a noose than a fashion accessory. Ianto couldn't help but smile a little at that as his fingers started their twitching. It was a god-awful tie, the color of green and yellow vomit and that in no way matched his dark blue ill-fitted suit. It made Ianto appreciate Jack's love for fashion and sharp dressing all the more. He watched as Huw set down his briefcase, not noticing how there was another lying behind the chair where Ianto's coat was hanging.

Ianto was out of his comfort zone, never having to trick his victim into restraints before. He always had them unconscious before driving to the warehouse, where they would be tied up and prepared for him before they even awoke. He was weary and a little on edge, but his calm exterior gave nothing away. His fingers itched to grab that ugly tie and use it as the death device that it symbolized. His mind yearned and his body lusted for the sounds that came from a body when it was being emptied of oxygen. The primal need for unspilled blood almost drove him out of control. But Ianto held on.

Huw Sherman wasn't one for much foreplay. Most people who hire rent boys in expensive places like this liked to pretend. Go out for dinner maybe, a drink or two. Make it feel like an actual date where one was only paying for the sustenance and hotel room instead of the significant other. But Huw had been doing these monthly meetings so long that he didn't care for that kind of pretense anymore – he knew exactly what the situation pertained to, and he would be damned if he didn't get his money's worth.

He slid onto the bed and Ianto met him halfway, avoiding Huw's lips, instead going for the soft skin that made up the neck. Ianto worked his way down, stopping and nibbling or sucking on the flesh, going slowly as his hands worked double time, unbuttoning the man's greasy shirt. He tried to ignore the feeling of boney hands groping at his ass and crotch, the moans that drifted into his ears and the taste of a strange man's flesh on his tongue. When he got the shirt unbuttoned he broke away from Huw's neck and pushed him down on the bed, his head mere inches away from the headboard. The man chuckled and tried to sit back up, wanting more skin contact, but Ianto stopped him by using his knees and straddling the man. He leaned forward and grabbed both of Huw's wrists with his hands, using his left to hold them both above his head. Ianto started to kiss down the man's chest, stopping at his right nipple and playing with it with his tongue. He bit and sucked and nibbled at it, almost rolling his eyes at how easily the man was pleasured. He and Jack would play games some times – control games. He remembered one night when they weren't allowed to make a single sound. They also weren't allowed to enter one another until a sound was made, and the one who stayed silent the longest got the honours. It had been a long night – but Ianto won. He always won. Unlss he chose to lose.

The thought distracted Ianto and his lips quirked into a soft smile at the memory. Then Huw moved underneath him and he was brought back to the present. He continued his ministrations, moving on to the other nipple as he used his free hand to reach for the handcuffs that were still lying innocently on the bed. He brought them up and used the fact that Huw was distracted to click the cold metal restraints around his wrists and onto the poles that made up the headboard. As soon as they were closed Ianto sat up from what he was doing, no longer needing to continue.

"Kinky – I like it." Huw said in a breathless tone, wiggling his hands in the cuffs. The sharp edges bit into his skin and he cried out. "What the hell?"

But Ianto ignored him; pushing up off of the man and slipping off of the bed, taking time to button back up his shirt. He had plenty of time now.

"Hey! Come back here! What the hell – let me go!" Huw demanded, but Ianto ignored it. The man looked pathetic, shirt unbuttoned, eyes wide with arousal that was slowly turning into fear, half hard and handcuffed to the bed. There were thin lines of blood that were inching their way down his arm, and Ianto winced. He hated the sight of the stuff – it was too messy, unclean, and very good at picking up trace evidence. Ianto pulled the gloves from his back pocket and snapped them onto his hands, walking over to the dresser and clicking the button on the top of the stopwatch. This was his time now.

Ianto leaned over and dragged his suitcase from under the bed. He pulled out a roll of duck tape first, which he ripped using his fingers and slapped it over Huw's mouth. Ianto loved listening to his victims blubber and cry, trying to defend something that they didn't have – innocence. Sometimes he would write what they said in the margins of their file, like a cruel punch line to a joke that only he knew. Other times, he would write down how long they begged before realizing that they wouldn't be allowed to live. But he would be robbed of that tonight, along with several of his other rituals. It would be worth it though.

Then he grabbed some disinfectant wipes and quickly went over everything – Huw's body where Ianto had touched him, the entire framework of the bed, and the handcuffs. He cleaned up the blood at the same time, feeling better when he could no longer see the mess it was making. Ianto spent exactly thirty minutes methodically cleaning the places that he had touched, knowing that Huw's eyes were frantically watching him, mentally counting the times that the man whimpered from behind the tape. Then Ianto wiped himself down, not because it was essential, but because he needed to. He scrubbed at his lips, desperately trying to get the man's taste out of his mouth. It was disgusting. He would have spit, but spit had DNA in it.

When Ianto was finished, he turned to Huw, briefcase in hand. He opened it and took out the files, sat on the edge of the bed, and began to read. He told Huw the story of his sister's trial, and her hardships afterwards. He went into detail about how Huw's life had unfolded from there, and the evils he had committed.

He finished, looking up from the file, watching as tears streamed down Huw's face. But they weren't tears of regret or remorse. No. He wasn't crying for his sister he was crying for himself. These were tears that were shed when someone realized that they were about to die, and there was absolutely nothing that they could do about it. That secret smile of Ianto's crept across his face; the genuine one that would only confirm Huw's theory. Ianto got up from the bed and reaching for his stopwatch pressed the button on top, recording the time in his journal before resetting the watch. Then he reached into his suitcase once more and pulled out a tie. It was a nicer one that what Huw had been wearing – pure silk, with a rich purple colour that would go with the rest of the man's outfit nicely. Ianto didn't do second rate when it came to his tools.

This time, when he straddled Huw, the man didn't make a sound. Ianto wrapped the tie around his neck and slowly tied it, his crystal blue eyes staring holes into Huw's ugly brown ones the whole time.

"I'm going to take the tape off now." Ianto said calmly when he finished doing up the tie. "And you're not going to scream, or yell, or try anything. Because that would just make me angry, ok?"

The man nodded frantically, and Ianto ripped the tape off. True to his nod, Huw stayed silent, letting out only the slightest whimper and sniffle. Ianto rolled his eyes, his fingers dancing along the silk noose of their own accord. His heart rate sped up, and his breathing quickened in anticipation of what was to come. Slowly, he started to tighten the knot. He wanted to make a new record tonight – longest death. He wanted it to be special, to signify something.

"P-please." Huw choked out as the knot slowly cut off his air supply. He gasped, but only a miniscule amount of oxygen entered his lungs.

"That's what your sister said to you." Ianto said, his own words uneven and husky, his tone unnaturally low and thick. "You didn't listen. Why should I?"

Then Ianto allowed his control to be swept away by the desire to complete what he had started, and there were no more words spoken.

**-xXx-**

"You look like shit." Gwen Cooper said to Jack seconds after he had stepped out of his large black SUV. And, like most times when Gwen made observations, they were true. The bags that had been under his eyes the night before had grown, and his skin was as pale as Gwen had ever seen it. Even in the winter months the man kept a tan, but now it looked like all the blood had been drained from his body. He was limping harder than usual too, but she didn't say anything about that.

"Haven't you heard? Shit is the new fabulous." Jack retorted, but his heart wasn't in it. He was worried about what his stupidity had done to his relationship, and had a gut feeling that the body found in the hotel that they were currently standing in front of was a result of their serial killer. It was a few days early according to their estimates, but people could be fickle sometimes. Of course, that's not what Jack thought of this killer. He had spent the last month studying what little they knew of the man, and he was nothing if not thorough. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would let urges get the best of him; step outside his usual pattern on a whim. No, it was more than likely a statement in retaliation of the newspaper article. Gwen had called him that morning at a more reasonable hour then the last time, but Jack hadn't been asleep anyway. She told him to meet her at the Hilton Cardiff hotel, and was all through her voice that another body had been found. She hadn't been able to get in touch with John, and neither had Jack. He had probably gone on a binge somewhere last night after giving Jack the information against Ianto. Jack wished him the hangover from hell.

"Did you get some sleep? Doesn't look like it." Gwen was saying, trying to keep the tone light and prevent talking about what lay in wait on the fourth floor. They were still standing outside the hotel, waiting for the forensics team to finish before they could enter. Gwen had requested that nothing be touched or moved until they had a look around, but the forensics team was already looking – very carefully and meticulously – for prints.

"I had more important things to do." Jack said, leaving out the fact that those important things consisted of reading into Ianto's personal history and then hating himself for hurting the younger man.

Gwen raised an eyebrow at this. "Did you talk to Ianto about the news article?" Then her eyes grew wide with mischief as she misinterpreted Jack's earlier statement. "Important, my arse. You were just shagging the night away, weren't you? Did you at least find out who published it?"

Jack's face grew dark with guilt when Gwen brought up his lover, and looked away, leaning on his walking stick for support. "Owen went through a different editor. Ianto didn't know." His voice was a mumble.

Gwen picked up on the change of mood in an instant, knowing all the different looks that were Jack Harkness. This was one that she had seen many times before, but not a lot lately. It worried her. "Jack, are you and Ianto ok?"

Jack was spared from answering, the ringing of Gwen's phone saving him. She gave him a look that told him their chat wasn't over, and then glanced at the screen. "Ready or not, here we come." she said, and slipping arm through Jack's, the two of them headed up to the crime scene.

"Huw Sherman, thirty three." Gwen started as they waited for the lift. She was in full cop mode now, and Jack slipped into his professional mask as well. "Found at around six this morning. Wasn't answering his wake-up call, and hotel policy states that a employee has to knock on the door when there isn't an answer to make sure their guests don't oversleep. Hotel sells itself on its personal service. Guy knocked on the door, no one answered."

The lift dinged, and they stepped inside. Gwen pressed the button for floor number four. "He had a bad feeling, so he used his key to open the door. Found him like he is now. Didn't touch anything, just turned and threw up in the hall."

Jack rolled his eyes. He remembered the first time he had seen a dead body. It had been a gruesome one too. He had been fortunate enough to have skipped breakfast, and ended up just dry heaving. Maintained some of his dignity, seeing that he was one of the only ones without chunks of their breakfast on their shirts. The lift doors opened. "You looked inside yet?"

Gwen shook her head. "Nope. I just quoted word for word what I was told. Wanted to share the moment with you."

Despite the situation, Jack chuckled. "I'm honoured."

They arrived outside of the door labeled 456 and Gwen knocked. They had to wait a couple seconds, then it opened and the grim face of Andy Davidson greeted them. "Come on in, then."

He stepped out of the way to allow the two entrance to the crime scene. Gwen went straight in, heading for the bed, where the murder had occurred. Jack stayed in the mini lobby, glancing around, setting the stage for what was to come. He could imagine it, the killer touching the same door handle that he had just grabbed moments ago. Slipping into the room, standing where he was now, nothing but malicious and twisted thoughts in his mind, preparing to have a pleasure-filled night, because that was how men like that got off. Then he stepped around the corner.

It wasn't the most gruesome crime scene that Jack had ever seen, but it was one of the most unsettling. Chills went down his back in waves as he looked at the scene in front of him. He had a terrible feeling that this macabre display had been put on as a show just for him.

The body of Huw Sherman was stretched out on the bed. His legs were straight and clad in his suit trousers and dress shoes. The rest of him was completely dressed as well; save for the sleeves of the man's dress shirt and jacket. They had been cut off so it looked as though he was wearing a vest. His arms had been positioned so that they made a cross over his chest, each hand gripping the opposite shoulder, like they did with the deceased in coffins. The man's eyes were open, eternally damned to stare at the ugly colour painted on the ceiling. His mouth was twisted into a choked scream, and Jack could almost hear the man's pleadings bounce around the walls, unheard by the killer as he did the deed. The man's tie was wrapped around his neck so tight that it looked like it had been fused to his skin. Jack had a horrid image flash into his head of the coroner untying the tie, the skin under it peeling off with it. He shuddered, then walked closer, looking for any telltale sign of evidence. When he got close enough, he realised why it was that the sleeves had been ripped off of the man's suit. Carved into both arms was a number.

13:58.

The cuts were precise, and when Jack knelt on the floor to get a closer look, he didn't see any jagged edges that would tell him the type of knife that was used. The edges were smooth and precise – someone who knew how to handle that particular piece of weaponry. There were no hesitation marks, the killer was confident ad decisive. There were also no thin lines of dried blood that should have dripped down from the cuts – the body must have been wiped clean. That was interesting.

Jack stood up and glanced over the body again, his eyes stopping at Sherman's wrists. There were cuts along those too, this time jagged and uneven. He had seen those kinds of marks before. Handcuffs. And the man had clearly struggled to get wouds like those. But still, there was no blood around the wrists.

"He doesn't like blood." Jack said out loud, turning to Gwen. "He spent time cleaning the blood from the arms and wrists when he could have just left it there. And his killing method is clean and meticulous."

Gwen nodded. "This is our guy." She glanced at the tie around Sherman's neck, and then shifted her gaze to the headboard. Lying draped over the top were several articles of clothing. Four of them were the sleeves from the shirt and jacket that the victim was wearing. The other was an ugly yellow-green tie. Gwen raised her eyebrow at this, and gestured toward one of the policemen in the room. "Anyone explain this?"

Andy stepped up. "Clerk who works downstairs claimed he was wearing that last night when he checked in. The murder weapon must have been one of the killer's own."

It was strange, looking at a silk tie and classifying it as a murder weapon. Jack got as close to the ugly tie as he could and peered at it before chuckling. "The killer has taste – that is about the cheapest tie you could buy – I don't think I'd even talk to a guy wearing polyester. The one on the body looks to be silk."

Unnoticed by both Gwen and Jack, Andy blushed a little and quickly undid his cheap polyester tie, stuffing it in his pocket before attracting attention once again. "The forensics team says that they looked for prints on almost every available surface, but didn't find any. The whole room has been completely wiped down. Even the floor had been vacuumed. The skin on the victim had been wiped too. Smelt a little like household disinfectant wipes."

"Wait." Jack said, holding up a hand to stop Andy from going any further. "So you're telling me that we have a whole crime scene right in front of us, complete with the murder weapon and everything and we have _no_ physical evidence on this guy?"

"Well – not yet, no." Andy said, giving a weak smile. "But we will. Mickey's coming in as soon as he can to do a more thorough sweep of the place, and Suzie will more than likely find a hair or something on the body."

"I don't think so, mate." came a voice from the behind them. Everyone turned to see Private Detective John Hart leaning on the wall, a smirk on his face while his eyes roamed the room, drinking in the details.

"John – we've been trying to call you for ages – where were you!" Gwen said angrily, crossing her arms and giving him a look that even the strongest men wilted under.

His smirk went down a notch, and he furrowed his eyebrows. "Honestly, love, I can't seem to remember."

Jack let out a frustrated sigh. "We don't have time for this – you're hung over, aren't you? Damn it, John! You're on a case!"

John rolled his eyes and waved off Jack. "I'm not drunk, Jackie boy. Just last night's a bit hazy…must have had some fun." A lecherous grin grew on John's face, then turned serious as he scoped the crime seen. He took a few steps forward, silent for the longest of times. Then, he started to laugh. "Oh, brilliant, this is. Bloody brilliant. The sick bastard's playing with us. You aren't gonna find anything – he's pissed at the article, and is showing how he can't be touched. All this evidence, but none of it useful. Brilliant."

"He's not pissed." Jack said, frowning. "No – this is too calculated to be pissed. How long do you think it would take to clean an entire hotel room? Or to choke someone without leaving evidence? He's not pissed – he's showing off."

"Tired of playin' in the dark, yeah?" John said, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

"Probably amused that we're trying." Jack put in, picking up where John had left off.

"Showing that even though we're looking -"

"- he's not going to stop."

"No reason to."

The boys finished and glanced at each other, a small smile playing at both of their mouths. Gwen watched this as a bystander, unsettled by how easily their issues with each other were forgotten and how perfectly they seemed to mesh. She got flashbacks of all those years ago, for the short two weeks that they were partners in every way. Even before that, they had worked a few cases together, and they were always an unstoppable team. Better than her and Jack together, Gwen hated to admit. But their tendency to kick ass in the field couldn't in any way make what happened between the two of them better.

"Boys, you're missing something." Gwen spoke up, breaking their concentration. She pointed over to the small coffee table, where there was a single manila file sitting on top of the old magazines. For a second, something flashed in John's eyes, but it was too quick for anyone to see.

"What is that?" Jack asked, moving closer.

Gwen reached into her pocket and pulled out a glove, getting the 'ok' from Andy before flipping open the file.

Silence.

Gwen hurriedly flipped through the papers; shocked at the information she was seeing. Inside there were at least fifty sheets of paper. Each sheet had a photograph attached to it and the rest of the page was covered front and back, from margin to margin in small writing, detailing every single piece of that person's life.

"Huw Sherman, Mark Lyndon, Lisa Hallet, John Ellis, Jasmine Pierce…" Gwen's voice trailed off.

"Ok – definitely showing off." John said.

* * *

**Review?**


	8. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: The last scene in this is one of my favorites, which is funny, because I hadn't planned a significant occurrence that happened. I'm sure you can figure out which one when you get there. ^_^ All I can say is that it's the boys' fault. Thanks to my reviewers and silent stalkers, and especially my beta, Jooles.**

* * *

Later that morning, the police station was in a frenzy. News of the body being the latest victim of their serial killer had gotten around. Everyone on the case was busy, and those who weren't were trying to gain information from those who were. People were running around, trying to look like they were doing something important. Since the article had been published, reporters saw the case as an open battleground, and the phones had been ringing off the hook – not to mention all the wannabes that were crowding the lobby, trying to get a glimpse of one of the detectives working the case.

When John walked through the lobby that morning, he was intent on getting into the back of the station without dealing with any of the reporters or concerned citizens. Normally he'd enjoy the attention, dropping little hints that would led nowhere, flashing big smiles at the photographers. He would make sure that the people of Cardiff knew who was the lead on the case, so when the big bad was finally brought in, there would be a name and a face to match with their guardian angel. Of course, if the killer was never found, he could point out he was just a hired hand, and slip off somewhere nice using the fat paycheck he got from the police. It was a win-win situation.

However, today he skipped all that drama. When he burst through the doors he adapted a grim look of determination with a dangerous glint in his eyes. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, and his lips sporting that little pout that he thought made him appear focused. He walked like a man on a mission, and he made sure that everyone could see the hand that was resting securely on the butt of his gun as he made the short trip. As he expected, no-one approached him. Those that started towards him quickly saw his demeanor and instead of risking his wrath, they sat down and scribbled on their little notebooks, trying to figure out what that mood could mean for the people of Cardiff.

He dropped the act before the door had swung shut behind him, falling back into his normal attitude. He adopted that leering grin, the slight smirk, and put the swagger back into his step. Andy, who had the bad luck of drawing the short straw for manning the front desk and phones from people of the outside world, had seen the whole scene and hailed John as he walked past him.

"You've got to teach me how to do that." Andy said pleadingly, trying to ignore the dagger stare he was getting from the journalist at the window. He wasn't doing very well.

John snorted. "Sorry mate – can't teach perfection." giving a wide grin that reminded the policeman of Jack, and then the private detective was off again.

He stepped into the break room for a quick cuppa, then headed towards the computer lab, fresh – but instant – coffee in hand. Mickey stopped him on the way, reminding him of the meeting the serial killer task force (or, as John called them, groupies) had in forty-five minutes. A snide remark passed between them, and they parted ways.

His boots made a loud echoing noise as he descended the stairway into the deep unknown – otherwise known as the lab. He gave Toshiko a small grin that was less lecherous than most, and approached her, leaning on the table next to where she was working. Toshiko was typing away, her fingers not faltering as she glanced away from the screen, her glasses low on her nose, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that had seen better days. She gave a small smile as John approached, taking one hand off of the key board long enough to push her glasses back up before focusing once more on the task at hand. "Hello John."

John replied, flirting with the woman. "Hello cutie. What have you got for me?"

John thought it was cute when Toshiko blushed. She had developed quite a liking for the private eye over the past few weeks, and it hadn't escaped John's attention. Maybe he would take her out for a tryst once this whole thing was over and done. He had a while before he needed to be back in London. And he had learned from experience that the quite ones always ended up surprising you.

"Not a lot John. I've been working since Mickey and Andy brought me the evidence from the crime scene. I'm in the process of re-creating the hotel room from the pictures taken at the crime scene, but I'm not expecting much. It's a perfect murder." She gave a weak smile that told John of the worry that she was feeling. The man had killed and laid it out in front of the entire police force; doing everything except putting up a sign that said 'catch me if you can' and they had nothing.

"Fingerprints?" he asked, searching for some new information. But he wasn't surprised when Toshiko shook her head.

"Just a couple from the door that belong to the hotel worker that found the body. Our killer wiped the entire room down. I'd hire him to clean my flat if he wasn't a psychopath." she said, trying to put some humour into the situation. Even though it was ill timed, John smiled.

"Thanks love." he remarked, turning to go.

"Oh, hey John!" Toshiko called, causing John to hesitate on the steps. "Let Jack know that Ianto was here earlier asking about him while he was still at the crime scene, will you? He looked like he hadn't slept a wink."

"Sure." John said, suddenly distracted. He turned and walked the remaining stairs to get to the hallway of the police station, his mind in overdrive. What would Ianto be doing at the police station without calling Jack first? And why would he go to Toshiko? There were plenty of other cops who knew him – the man could have asked any one of them to pass a message on. Instead, he purposefully walked down to the computer lab to ask Tosh – the computer lab that just happened to contain all the data on the case. John's eyes narrowed.

He walked past the boardroom still deep in thought. By happenstance he glanced in and stopped, checking his watch. There was still thirty minutes until the meeting, so why were Jack and Gwen in the room? They were sitting on either side of the table, papers spread out in front of them. To anyone just passing, it would seem like they were hard at work on the case. However, John could tell by the look on both of their faces that the case was the furthest thing from their minds. He glanced around to make sure no-one was coming, then pressed his ear against the side of the door, eager to know what they were talking about.

"….screwed up." That was Jack.

"It couldn't have been that bad Jack. Maybe he had a lot on his mind and just overreacted – the newspaper article thing had to have upset him." Gwen's turn to talk. The door muffled the voices, but John was able to pick up the basics of the conversation.

"I don't … He wasn't pissed …. stabbed him. "

"… haven't seen him since?"

"I tried calling him …. came home … early morning, … gone when I woke up."

"… time Jack. … Ianto'll come back, and … hot make-up sex … call me and spill all."

There was laughter after that, along with several well-placed comments at each other, and then the talk turned back to the case. John left, having heard all he needed. Sounded like Ianto was gone all last night as well. His grip on his cup of coffee tightened fractionally, and his teeth unconsciously started to grind together.

The pieces of the puzzle that John had been working on for the past month started to slot together to form a picture.

**-xXx-**

The car was parked just around the corner, in a "two hour parking only" zone. Every two hours, to the second, the car would start up, pull out, and then show up again exactly ten minutes later in another spot, where it would sit and wait again.

Ianto Jones had been participating in this stakeout since he had left the hotel at two seven in the morning. It was all part of his plan. He had left for ninety two minutes, during which he ran to the police station at a time that he was one hundred percent certain that Jack would be at the crime scene. He'd taken coffee with him, and had gone down to the lab to see Toshiko. The woman, much like Ianto, lived by a schedule. She got breakfast at the same time every morning, and took work breaks of about a minute or two just to stretch her legs every two hours. Ianto had preyed on that routine, and had gotten himself into the lab with thirty seconds to himself. It was just long enough to open the database where Tosh had been keeping all the profiles that matched with Jack's description. He deleted the citizenship file that he was looking for, and had logged off and cleared the history as her heels made noises on the stairs. It would look as if nothing had happened for the moment, but if anyone took a closer look it would be obvious what was taken and who had logged in. Ianto was hoping that would be later rather than sooner.

He covered up his visit by inquiring about Jack, leaving subtle hints that not everything was wonderful in the life of their relationship. Toshiko, who had always been kind and caring, had read between the lines, and promised to tell Jack that he was ok, and wondering about the man's well-being. As he walked away, Ianto felt nothing – no guilt for manipulating an innocent, not the pull he felt in his chest when he did the exact same thing to Jack, who was less innocent than he led people to believe. It puzzled him, but Ianto didn't dwell on it. He was entering a very sketchy part of his plan – a lot of it depended on human behavior, one of the many things in the world that was difficult to control or count. Ianto hoped that the minds he needed to use were weak enough to be bent.

The apartment that he was watching was John Hart's. Ianto had been surprised when John came home early – with a new body to keep them occupied, the police were surely keeping all their resources on overtime. Yet the man was home before noon. There was something off about the situation, and Ianto started to get an unsettling feeling – an instinct that something wasn't right. It was the same feeling he got when numbers didn't add up, timings weren't right or something didn't go according to his plan. John's behavior was more erratic than his normal self, which meant something was up. The only way to find out what it was would be to break into John's flat and look for himself.

It was risky, but then again his nightlife wasn't exactly the safest choice of entertainment. Ianto still had gloves, and it would be a good opportunity to look more deeply into John's life – get more background. Ianto didn't like having holes in back stories when it came to his victims. Always led to surprises, and Ianto hated surprises.

So all he had to do was wait.

It took a lot longer than he had anticipated. John stayed inside of his flat for the rest of the day. Jack called him twice and Ianto ignored the phone both times. Ianto felt that tug in chest both times the man's name came up on his mobile, and he ended up turning his phone off. He told himself it was all part of the plan. He needed to be out of the apartment a lot in the upcoming weeks without Jack getting suspicious. He could skip work and Jack would just think that he was still pissed and hurt and holed up somewhere, trying to calm down. But a smaller part of him whispered that he was putting Jack at arms-length, not because of the plan, but because he didn't want him caught in the middle of this mess and end up getting hurt more than was needed. Ianto didn't like this mental argument he was having with himself – it was distracting and unnerving. So he pushed Jack Harkness out of his mind.

His chance came later that night, at around nine. John left the building with what was either a very large bottle of beer or an average bottle of wine in a carrier bag. Whatever the reason, the man was leaving, and wouldn't be back for a while. Cue the break in.

Ianto waited for ten minutes to make sure that John wasn't coming back for something forgotten, then climbed out of the car. He took his time, walking along the pavement and into the building like he belonged there. He walked up the stairs, giving a small smile and a wordless nod to anyone who he came into contact with. The hallway where John's flat sat was empty, so Ianto was able to pick the lock without interruption. No one would be able to tell that the lock had been tampered with unless they looked really closely. That, along with the fact that Ianto had pulled on gloves before he started the break-in made him one hundred percent positive that no-one would be able to trace anything back to him.

He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He didn't go directly for the lights – instead, he stood still, adjusting to his surroundings, counting in his head as he breathed in and out every three seconds. After five cycles of this he opened his eyes, flipped on the lights and clicked the little button on the top of his stopwatch that sat in the inside right pocket of his jacket.

The apartment was a very nice one – good size for a man who lived off of a consultant's fee. Ianto didn't spend much time memorizing the details – that wasn't what he was there for. All he wanted to know was how deep John was into the case, and if his outside sources had been able to find out anything that the police hadn't. Ianto knew that, according to John's past record, he enjoyed the spotlight. He would keep information to himself if it meant getting fifteen minutes of fame. If John was sure that he knew who the serial killer was, the man would most likely wait for a big reveal. That in itself made Ianto a bit on edge. He didn't like not knowing what was going on.

John's flat was well situated; halfway between Cardiff and London. Yes, that meant that he had a good and long drive every morning and afternoon, but it also meant that he was able to take cases from both cities without having to go out of his way.

He spent no time running his gloved figures over items. He searched the room quickly and methodically, mentally taking pictures of the placements of things before disturbing them, making sure to place them back exactly where they had been before. Nothing in the main room, so he moved on to the kitchen. He searched there as well, unable to find any information about the case at hand. He checked his stopwatch and frowned. It had passed the hour mark twice already. He paused only long enough to pull out his small black book from his other inside jacket pocket and note the occurrence. Then he went back to work.

Finally, he found himself standing outside John's bedroom. It was the last room to be searched, and Ianto once again paused to document the time. He had been in the apartment for over four hours.

He reached for the handle and twisted the knob, eyebrows shooting high when he was met with resistance. What was in that room that John wanted hidden from prying eyes?

Ianto worked quickly, excited now by what could be lying behind the door. The lock gave way with a click, and Ianto stood up, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

He stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him, his hand reached behind him to turn on the light. The bulb flickered on, and Ianto's eyes were met with what could only be described as a nightmare.

The shock of the images that assaulted Ianto's brain was so strong it threw his body backwards. He ran into the door with a heavy thud, the impact jarring his bones, but Ianto didn't feel it. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands started to shake, his hands balling and loosening of their own accord as he tried to deal with what was lain out in front of him. All too soon, his body couldn't take it anymore, and he slid to the ground, unable to summon the strength to get back up. When his head managed to rise again and his eyes look at the room, they were not the cold eyes of Ianto Jones; they were the blue orbs of the frightened, scared little Ifan.

The walls were covered in pictures. Pictures of himself as he grew up, starting as a little boy and then on until he was about sixteen. Then there was a gap, and then new pictures of him in the past couple months. There were pictures of Jack as well, but his eyes skipped over those. The majority of images that took up the wall were from way back when, when Ianto was little and miserable and becoming what he was today. There were the pictures that the police had taken when his house had turned into a crime scene. There was information about the child abuse case that his father had won, a picture of little Ifan curled up on the bench, hiding his eyes from the press. There were pictures from all angles of his father, lying propped up against the wall, a tie around his neck like a noose, the thick end of it caught on a nail protruding from the wall, his lifeless eyes staring into the camera, his fingers forever frozen on the ugly tie that killed him. Transcripts of the murder scene and the interrogations that were conducted – the one from little Ifan Jones highlighted and heavily annotated in John's handwriting.

There were pictures of Ifan with his mother and father and sister when they were little – happy family pictures before his mother passed away. He had been only a baby then, still needing someone to hold him up for the picture.

It swirled around him, mocking him, teasing him. Tearing apart the life that Ianto had worked so hard to build for himself. It stripped him bare and left him naked on the floor, eyes wide with the shock of being discovered.

John Hart had figured it out.

John Hart had figured out who the Cardiff serial killer was, and he was roaming the streets with that information at this exact second.

Ianto dealt with the shock of the situation like he dealt with everything else. He very, very slowly tucked it away – at least, he tried. But the images still stared at him, his father's dead eyes laughing mercilessly at him, and Ianto couldn't do it. Instead, he gave way to the anger that boiled inside. That raw emotion that the Welshman struggled with almost daily. But this time he didn't even attempt to contain it. There was only one way to fix the problem presented to him.

John Hart must die tonight.

**-xXx-**

When the knock came at the door, Jack was half expecting it to be Gwen claiming to have some little detail she'd forgotten to tell him earlier as an excuse to come and make sure he was ok. He wanted it to be Ianto, coming back from wherever he had been, giving Jack a chance to explain himself and make everything so much better. But the one person that he wasn't expecting to be standing at the door was John Hart.

He stood there, leaning against the doorway with a smirk on his face like he was welcome. He had on the same clothes as that morning, and looked a little the worse for wear. But he was holding a bottle of wine in his hand, which he immediately held out when the door opened.

"I don't drink." Jack said stiffly, already in the process of closing the door. At the last second John stuck his hand against the wood and pushed it back open.

"It's nonalcoholic – some grape juice shit mixed with soda." The detective explained, pushing his way into the flat. Jack stepped aside with a weary sigh.

"What the hell do you want, John? You already skipped out on the task force meeting."

"I was busy – Ianto home?" Hart sat the bottle down on the living room coffee table, not asking before taking off his jacket and plopping down onto the love seat. He picked up his feet and laid his dirty boots on the opposite arm rest.

"Ianto's going to kill you." Jack pointed out conversationally as he limped around the couch, grabbing the nonalcoholic beverage and taking it into the kitchen.

"What!" John yelped, his head shooting up, his eyes wide. Had Jack known, all this time, what Ianto was – what he did? They been playing him; using him for pleasure like a twisted scientist would use a rat, throwing it into a maze and promising it cheese, only to leave a bone-wrenching shock at the finish line. Ianto was here right now, wasn't he?, Hiding somewhere with a tie between his fingers, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and slowly squeeze him to death.

"Your boots are getting dirt all over the couch." Jack called back in answer, and John laughed in relief. He suddenly hated this paranoia, and was glad that he had left his gun in his car.

Jack came back into the room, two wine glasses in hand. One of them held the sparkling juice that John had brought, the other containing actual wine. The latter was passed to John, and the man sat up, taking it with only a mutter of thanks and downing the whole thing in one go.

Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, taking a sip of his own before placing the almost-full glass onto the table in front of him. "Want me to repeat myself?"

John rolled his eyes. "I got a lead – something I needed to follow up. Ended up being nothing. Thought there was nothing wrong with stopping by a friend's place with wine and wanting to be filled in."

Jack sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. "Fine – but I'm still annoyed at you. Where the hell did you get that file on Ianto anyway? I haven't seen him since early last night. Not even answering his phone or anything."

"You're whipped." John pointed out, standing up and grabbing his wine glass. "A source – can't tell you, professionalism and everything."

Jack snorted, and John made that his exit cue, walking into the kitchen. The bottle of wine that Jack had opened sat in the middle of the counter, and John poured himself another glass. He paused, staring at it. It was a good bottle – not high-end expensive, but better than the cheap stuff that he drank by himself. He knew it wasn't Jack's, so it must be Ianto's. John took a small sip and closed his eyes. He was drinking wine that belonged to a serial killer. A serial killer that was dating his ex.

John couldn't tell Jack. He couldn't be the one to explain to him about Ianto's past, and see it in his eyes as he broke. That's if Jack even believed him. The man probably wouldn't believe it coming from anyone unless they caught him in the act. All the evidence in the world short of a confession or being caught red handed and no-one would believe it. Hell – being caught red handed probably wouldn't even fly; Ianto would find a way out of it. Psychos like him were normally genius beyond a level of normal comprehension.

John hated it. As much as he acted like a jackass and a jerk – as much as he hurt Jack and tormented him and tried to ruin his relationship with Ianto, John loved him. He had from the first time he had met him, and he would up until the day he died. He had hurt Jack in ways that no man should ever be hurt, but was felt too far, even for him.. Because John knew that the way Jack looked at the Welshman was a mirror image of the way that he himself looked at Jack.

No, he would catch the son-of-a-bitch in the act, force him to make a confession, and let the law punish him for the murders. But first, John would make him pay for the agony that Jack would go through. Because no-one hurt Jack Harkness and got away with it except for himself.

And he would start by drinking the bastard's wine.

John picked up the entire bottle and carried it out to the living room with renewed vigor, sitting down and taking another large gulp from his wine glass before refilling it to its previous level. Then, he sat back and propped his socked feet on the coffee table, gesturing at Jack to begin with the glass that was in his hand.

Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about the wine bottle. Instead, he took one last small sip of his own cocktail and began. "Toshiko took the file we found at the crime scene -"

"Resume." John butted in, seeing an image of the file flash before his eyes; the seemingly countless number of people who were dead, neatly assembled like it was some sort of business paperwork instead of lives that were detailed with ink.

"Right – resume – and they matched up to the potential victim list we had created. But the folder went back another four years before the Cardiff killings. Toshiko matched all the names to missing persons in London, as well as a few from outlying towns between here and there."

"So this guy has been operating unnoticed for about eight years?" John asked, the nod from Jack confirming that.

"Also, there was a breach in our security earlier this morning, and a file was deleted. Tosh is working on finding out what it was now, but it may take her a while."

"Anything at the crime scene?" John asked, already knowing the answer. Ianto was too careful, too clean and too clever to have left anything behind that the cops could use.

Jack shook his head. "A few things were found and sent off to the lab, but it's highly unlikely to be useful. Have you ever heard of a killer that vacuumed after finishing with his victim?"

John snorted. "Lemme guess, lines on the carpet?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. Also, we read the information the killer left in his resume – more than we were able to pull up on the victim. His name was Huw Sherman, kinda sleazy. According to the serial killer's file, he goes to the hotel once a month, pretty much on the same night. Hires out this high-class company to send him a rent boy for the night."

"Wanker can't get any on his own?" John joked, not pausing long enough to let Jack continue. "So you're thinking that the killer" – _Ianto_ – "used the cover of rent boy to get Huw unaware, then handcuffed him and killed him?"

"Bingo." Jack said, and John gave him a strange look before sarcastically taking the man's wine glass and sniffing it, making sure that it really wasn't alcoholic. Jack gave him a faux-annoyed look and took it back, taking a swig.

"Thought you could go to the company tomorrow and see what you can find out." Jack finished.

John smirked. "There was a day that I'd have to fight you for that."

"Puh-lease." Jack said, pulling the word into two syllables. "You'd show up, and I'd already be their best customer."

They shared a laugh that quickly turned awkward as Jack remembered that he was supposed to be angry with John, and John remembered that the man Jack was in love with was a serial killer.

Now was the time where, if they had been in a movie, the crickets would start chirping in their own awkward way. Jack coughed, and John took another gulp of his wine.

"Signs of shagging?" John asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" Jack asked, a bit thrown by the question. "Oh – Nothing obvious. Suzie's working on the autopsy now and will run further tests, but I wouldn't bet on it. Doesn't seem like the kind of person who would do that to their victims."

"Right," John said humourously. "He's the kind of guy who would kill people with bloody ties, but isn't indecent enough to shag them first."

Jack shrugged. "Rape is a sign of sexual frustration and release as well as the need to be dominant over one's victims. The killing that goes along with it is normally messy, brutal and uncontrolled – none of which we have seen with this guy."

"Whatever – I leave the hocus-pocus to you." John said. It was at this point that he decided to forgo the small wine glass and instead picked up the entire bottle and took a large swig. Jack didn't flinch.

Another silence. "I miss this." John said suddenly. And it was true. He missed the nights that they had, all that time ago, when they were together. It had been darker times, true. He had been in and out of rehab, most of the time too drunk or high to think clearly. And Jack had been in the depths of depression so soon after the shootout and the resulting injury. But the months that followed that night had been John's favorites. Before Jack was hurt the two of them had just been shagging – no, not even that. Mindlessly fucking because they didn't work well enough to actually have a relationship, but were addicted too much to just let it go. But the shooting changed everything. They started to talk, not being able to do anything else while Jacks body healed. John started to learn things about Jack, and in turn started to confide in Jack. Instead of going to bed for sex they would spend the night together wrapped up in each other, John trying his best to sooth Jack as the man went through the darker times, crying and complaining that his leg was on fire, his side was on fire. The day that John had to remove anything sharp from his small flat after Jack, driven half mad with pain, had tried to cut off everything that hurt.

Yes it had been hell, and a time that John would never wish to go back to because of the pain that Jack had been dealing with. But if he had a chance to change it, he wouldn't.

John was selfish like that.

Jack had looked at John when he spoke, and their eyes had connected. The small spark that had always been there between them flickered a little, reminding each other of its existence. Because that was the best way to describe their relationship, or lack of. They weren't good for each other, but they were addicted, and no matter how long they stayed apart, no matter how much they told themselves they were out from under the influence, all it took was a single look in the wrong direction and that need was there again.

Before John could tell himself anything different, he found himself getting up from his seat on the couch and moving over to Jack, setting the bottle back on the table as he went. Jack watched him the whole time, not saying anything, knowing what was coming but not disapproving. Not approving either.

Then John was standing there, in front of him. Jack sat up straight, and John took it as an invitation. He straddled the man's legs and sat on his lap facing him. Jack leaned forward, not to meet John, but to out his own glass on the table. Then he leaned back, not stopping until his back hit the overstuffed chair.

Their breathing was in rhythm now; deep full breaths which were shakily let out. They stared at each other, neither one sure what they were doing, but both knew what was about to come. Then Jack's hands were suddenly on John's hips, and the detective's were resting gently on either side of Jack's face. They inched closer – so close that they had to close their eyes, no longer able to focus on the other.

The sensation of noses pressing into cheeks, and lips on lips, and they were kissing.

It was nothing like the aggressive snog they had shared in the workroom back at the police station all those weeks ago. This was slow and gentle and, dare one say, _loving._ Their mouths moved slowly against one another, never going faster, lips remaining closed. But it was the most romantic kiss they had ever shared.

John's fingers stroked Jack's face, and he remembered exactly why he loved the man he was sitting on. And he suddenly had to tell Jack – _needed_ to convey to him precisely why he loved him.

His tongue poked out softly, timidly requesting entrance. There was no hesitation as Jack's mouth opened, and John poured everything into the kiss. His love and hatred and frustration, his need and lust and jealousy. But mostly his pain at knowing what he knew, and not wanting to. His wish that just this once, he could have walked away without knowing who did it.

And then they were pulling away, like both of them had silently said 'enough' and the kiss was over. They were both breathing hard – but not to the point of panting – and John rested his forehead against Jack's, not yet ready to open his eyes. Not ready to see the guilt in those blue pools, or the facial expression that told him it had been a mistake. But when he finally opened them, he didn't see either.

"I…" Jack breathed, and John pulled further away.

"Bathroom." John said suddenly, slipping off Jack. He noticed that the other man's hands hadn't moved from his waist, and felt the tug when he broke free. Neither of them were completely recovered from thae kiss, and Jack looked…lost, like he was waiting for it to happen again.

"Uh…there." he said, pointing towards his and Ianto's bedroom. John nodded clumsily and left the room, still dazed.

John stumbled into the bathroom, pulling the door shut and leaning against the sink. What had just happened? He shook his head and turned on the taps, splashing water on his face before looking into the mirror; staring into his own eyes, searching. He had seen the connection when he looked in Jack's eyes – he knew it. He knew that there was still something there, something real. No matter who Jack loved or got involved with, there would always be a little piece of his heart that was saved for John.

And that thought gave him hope. Hope that, when this whole thing was over and Ianto was behind bars, then John would be there to help Jack get over it all. It would take time, and things wouldn't look bright for a while, but John had been through that before, and that little glimpse into Jack was all he needed to know that it would all be ok in the end.

The water woke him up, and John was back in detective mode. He glanced around, and realized that he had an opportunity like none other. He was in Ianto's bathroom with access to his bedroom, and no-one was watching.

There had to be a secret hiding place somewhere. Serial killer psychos always had a little nook where they could keep their trophies and secretly gloat over their achievements. And here was as good a place to start than any other.

John left the bathroom and slipped into the bedroom, waiting at the door long enough to glance out and see that Jack was still sitting in the living room. Perfect.

He turned his back to the door, then started to search.

Carefully and quickly he went over all the obvious spots. Fake bottoms on drawers and hidden compartments in the walls. John made his way into the closet next, poking his head in, about to withdraw when something caught his eye.

Over in Ianto's side of the closet, there was a small snag in the carpet in one corner. In any other circumstances, John would have looked right over it. But for some reason it called out to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he knelt down and used his fingers to probe the carpet, searching for any kind of irregularities. There – in the corner. He pulled at the carpet end with his fingernails, and it gave away with barely any resistance. Holding his breath, John grabbed the protruding corner and pulled.

Under the carpet was a small hole, and filling that hole was a single notebook. It was bound and covered with black leather, no lock securing it from any eyes. It had an ominous look about it, and with shaking hands John picked it up. He opened the book, and suddenly his eyes were bombarded by numbers. There were hundreds of them, filling entire pages. At the top of each page was a single name. As John flipped further back, he started to recognize then as the names the police had up on their board of victims.

Ianto's little black book.

John got to the last page, and the last name that had been penned in using perfect block letters turn his blood cold. His head swarm as the reality of the situation crashed down on him. He was so intent on what was on that page that he didn't hear the front door open and close again – he didn't hear the voices. He didn't hear the footsteps.

He was deafened by the sight of his own name at the top of the page.

He dropped the book like the pages were on fire, and hastily recovered the hole in the corner of the closet. There had already been almost one and a half pages of numbers following his name. That had to mean that Ianto had been watching him, studying him like he had studied all the other victims. And he had chosen his next one.

John scrambled backwards, needing to get as far away from that book as possible. He didn't turn until he was out of the closet and trying to climb to his feet again. He turned, heading to the doorway, needing to get out of the room before he suffocated.

Ianto Jones was standing in the doorway.

Just standing there, his cold calculating blue eyes tracing every movement he made. John didn't know how long he had been there, but from the look in his eyes, the detective knew. He knew that Ianto had seen him looking at his personal black book.

And then Ianto gave a smile – a smile that told of the pure evil that resided inside the young man. The Welshman let that smile sink deep into John's bones, then promptly turned and walked out of sight.

John didn't move – he couldn't.

* * *

**Dun Dun Dun.**

**Review?**


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Ah, the penultimate chapter. I can't believe that this is almost over already! Seems like not so long ago that I started to post - wow. Special thanks to my reviewers and silents stalkers - and especially to Jooles, my beat whom without, this last scene probably never would have gotten written. Enjoy please, and remember come the end not to kill me, alright?**

* * *

He woke up slowly, a loud, obnoxious noise pulling him from his dream world and back into reality. He groaned into his pillow and reached out with his left arm, planning on hooking his hand around Ianto's waist and pulling him closer. Jack had gotten so used to sleeping with the other man in bed with him that he felt cold when he wasn't surrounded by his body heat. However, just like the night before, his hand was unable to find the solidness of another warm body. Unlike the night before though, Ianto's half of the bed was still warm.

Jack smiled into the pillow, his annoyance at being prematurely woken forgotten for a moment when he remembered exactly what they had been doing in the bed last night. He knew that he was horrible for thinking it, but if there was one good thing that came out of his extreme fuck-up that was listening to John and taking the folder with Ianto's life in it, it was the make-up sex.

Ianto had come home last night, looking better than Jack had seen him look in a while, and told him that he had just needed a little bit of time to sort through all the bad memories that had resurfaced. There was a bit of groveling, and some awkward explaining of how one of his favorite bottles of wine was sitting on the coffee table half-empty when Jack didn't drink any more. The whole thing had been severely uncomfortable with John still in the apartment and the taste of him still swirling around Jack's mouth.

Ianto had gone to the bedroom and returned quite quickly, the complaint of a detective hogging the bathroom ripe on his lips. John had quickly vacated the apartment after realizing that Ianto had arrived, taking the case files and the rest of Ianto's bottle of wine with him.

Jack knew that Ianto could taste it when they had kissed. He knew deep down that Ianto could taste something other than Jack when he ran his tongue over his teeth. Jack had felt the way Ianto had hesitated just in the slightest, pulling back barely a quarter of a quarter of an inch. But Jack knew. The guilt had been quickly forgotten though as he had dragged his lover back into the bedroom and proved to him just how sorry he was for screwing everything up. But now, as he sat alone once again in their bed, that annoying ringing filling his ears, it all came crashing back.

Jack sighed and rolled over onto his back, blinking rapidly to try and wake up as he looked at the ceiling. He brought his hands to rest on his stomach, and softly began beating out a random rhythm on his skin with his fingers. He would have to tell Ianto. It wouldn't be that hard, he would just sit him down, take his hands, and tell him. He would tell him about kissing John. But just that one time, last night. That would be enough – that was all Ianto knew about, anyway. Jack couldn't tell him about any of the other things. The kiss at work…everything all those years ago. Because Jack wasn't sure how Ianto would react to that, knowing what it was that John? did to him. And if there was anything that the profiler had learned this past month, it was that he truly did love Ianto, and didn't want to live without him.

The decision made, Jack started to drift back off to sleep, when that noise that woke him came again, loud and clear. He rolled over, glancing at his nightstand and realizing that the noise was his phone. Someone was trying to reach him. Grumbling, Jack grabbed the mobile; a quick look at the digital clock cause him to curse out loud – it was going on three in the morning. Ready to yell at whoever decided it would be a good idea to call him at this outrageous time, Jack failed to read the caller ID before answering.

"Unless the world's ending or I'm about to die, you'd be smarter just hanging up right -"

"_Jack!"_ John Hart's voice was the last thing that Jack expected to hear, and he fell silent.

"_Listen…I need you to listen to me, ok?"_ John's voice said, a pleading and desperation in it that Jack had never heard before.

"John, where are you? Are you driving? Please tell me you didn't drunk dial me again." Jack said, running his hand through his hair and sitting up straight in the bed, dangling his legs over the side. His mind was just starting to hover over the question of where was Ianto at three in the morning when John spoke again.

"No – I'm not drunk Jack. I don't need you to ask questions right now…I just…listen to me, ok?"

Jack didn't say anything.

"I… I love you Jack. I know I've said it before, but I need you to believe me. I really to love you, and whatever happens next – whatever you see or hear, I need you to promise me you'll remember that."

"John, what -"

"_Promise me Jack! I need you to promise me!"_

Jack was standing now, not caring about the time or that he had been robbed of his sleep. The only thing going through his head right now was dread. Dread and worry about what John was about to do – what was so horrible that he had to call Jack and say this before he did it. Jack knew this kind of behavior – he had heard it from grieving relatives when they recounted the conversations they had with loved ones before they were killed, or did the killing, or ended up doing something extremely stupid and wrong. "John, please, what are you doing? You don't have to do this…just come back. Come back to my place and we'll talk about it."

"I do Jack. I do have to do this! I'm doing it for you, ok? Everything I've been doing, ever since I met you, it's all been for you. I love you."

Jack gripped his mobile so tight that it threatened to break. He was pacing his room now, terror zipping through his head, trying to think of ways to get John to stop whatever it was he was going to do. "I promise. I…I love you too, John."

There was a snort from the other end of the phone line. _"No you don't, but thanks for saying it."_

The line went dead.

"Damn it!" Jack yelled, throwing his mobile as hard as he could at the wall. It hit with a loud crack, then fell to the carpeted floor in several pieces. Realizing how stupid it had been to throw away his means of communication a second after he let go of the device, Jack swore again then ran as fast as he was able to into the kitchen, where their apartment landline was.

Almost tripping over his own feet to get there, Jack grabbed the phone and started to dial Gwen's number. Suddenly thinking of how strange John had been acting the night before, Jack hung up and started to dial another number.

It rang, and then the sound of Ianto's beautiful Welsh vowels filled his ear as his voice message began to play.

"Shit shit shit." Jack muttered, hanging up and trying again. No answer. His frantic mind began to connect dots that suddenly lined up in front of him. Ianto gone in the middle of the night, John calling him to semi-confess to whatever horrible deed he was about to do. Still recovering from being wrenched out of sleep after having gone over a week with barely any, Jack sloppily dialed Gwen's number.

She answered on his fourth attempt, her voice heavy with sleep and saying words into the phone not unlike the ones that Jack had muttered to John only minutes ago.

"Shut up Gwen!" Jack said, quickly cutting her off in the middle of her 'it's three in the morning you better have a good reason to be calling me' rant. She was obviously surprised, because she did.

"Listen, John just called me and he's about to do something bad and I can't get in touch with Ianto and I don't know where he is and he came back last night but he's gone now and John was here last night and left acting weird and -" Jack said, his words all coming out in one big sentence.

"_Jack!"_ Gwen yelled into the phone, silencing him_. "English!"_

"I think John's about to do something bad, and I think he's got Ianto." Jack finished, not stopping to take a breath.

There was silence on the other line for all of two seconds. Then, "_You know where he is?"_

Jack breathed a large sigh of relief. He half thought Gwen would tell him he was acting strange and to wait until a more decent hour – but then again, that was why he called Gwen and not the police station. She trusted him. "I don't know, I tried but he wouldn't tell me…"

Jack thought hard for several seconds. "Hey, wait! He got this GPS thing built into his car a few years back after it was stolen by some punks – get Toshiko to pull it up."

"_I'll call her as soon as I hang up."_ Her voice was hard now, in detective mode. It comforted Jack, if only a little bit. He knew she would do whatever she could to stop John before he ended up hurting someone – a someone who Jack couldn't stop thinking was Ianto. _"Listen to me Jack, you are not to go to the police station, or try and follow me, you understand? You're unarmed and you're a civilian. I'm going to do everything I can to find out what's going on and stop John and find Ianto, but I need you to stay out of the way."_

Jack gritted his teeth. "Fine." he seethed, both of them knowing he wasn't going to listen. Jack had also heard the unspoken words that Gwen had left hanging in the sentence. 'You're unarmed, you're a citizen, and you're a handicapped liability because you can't run and can't fire a gun anymore, or run, or fight.'

Gwen hung up without another word.

Jack wasted no time scrambling back into the bedroom and hurriedly pulling clothes on, not caring if they matched or not. Then he rushed back into the kitchen, his shirt halfway on, and dialed another number that he knew by heart.

"_Cardiff Police Crime Lab."_ said a tired and soft voice, and Jack smiled. Of course Toshiko would be in the lab at three.

"Tosh, it's Jack. Gwen would have just called asking you to track a GPS car unit – tell me what you told her."

"Jack – I would, but Gwen gave me explicit instructions not to tell you – she said you'd be calling."

"Damn it Tosh!" Jack yelled, then clenched and unclenched his fist to try and get himself back under control. "Did she tell you what it was for? Did Gwen tell you that the tracker belongs to John's car, and that he called me and confessed that he was about to do something? And that I can't get in touch with Ianto?"

Silence, then Jack heard a few clicking of fingers meeting keys. _"He's on a country road – the only thing that's anywhere close is the warehouse out near that pig farm where the first body was found. Gwen and the night shift police officers are already on their way."_

Jack couldn't even make himself to say thank you as he hung up the phone. He grabbed his keys off the counter and made his way to the door, pausing only long enough to pull on his shoes before he left.

**-xXx-**

Everything was going perfectly according to plan.

Ianto drove his car, heading to the abandoned warehouse, knowing that John Hart was following behind him. The detective had been pretty discreet while they were in the city, but out here in the countryside where the road's were deserted and headlights were obvious in the pitch darkness despite the bendy roads, , it was kind of hard to hide. He knew that John had called Jack to say a few last words, because Jack had called Ianto several times. His phone sat next to him in the seat, the screen flashing as it told him that there were two missed calls, both from 'Jack home.' It was a plain title, especially considering that in Jack's mobile, Ianto's caller ID showed as 'Yan-toe 3.'

Driving with one hand, Ianto used his other to pull his stopwatch from his pocket. He didn't press the button yet, his lips moving silently as he counted down.

After receiving the call from John, Jack would have tried to get in touch with Ianto first. Failing in that, he would call Gwen, who would use the tracker on John's car – which Ianto knew about due to the night that he had broken into and searched the whole of John's car – to find where he was. That would require calling Toshiko, who would be at her station because that was just what she did. It would take Toshiko approximately three minutes and thirteen seconds to locate the tracker on John's car, and from there, rounding up some officers, it would take Gwen a good three minutes to get everyone briefed on the situation, in patrol cars, and headed to the destination.

Which would mean, they were leaving the station….now.

Ianto pressed the button, and the stopwatch began to tick.

**-xXx-**

When John walked into the large warehouse, it was pitch black. He held his hand out in front of him, and he couldn't even see his fingers move as he flexed them. With one hand holding his handgun out into the darkness, he used his other to run along the wall, searching for a switch. He found it, and flicked it down.

The lights in the warehouse blazed brightly and suddenly, causing John to squint at the sudden attack on his optic nerveHis finger started to squeeze the trigger, but he managed to stop himself before he fired a shot. He blinked a few times to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, then took a look around him for the first time.

The warehouse was huge and abandoned – had once been a pork processing plant, but it was shut down years ago. It was said to be the place where the Cardiff serial killer did his dirty deed, but like everything connected to the case, they had found absolutely no proof. Until now.

Ianto Jones was sitting in the metal chair. The same chair that he would tie his victims to – the same chair that they struggled in when the air was cut from their lungs, the same place where they would draw their last breath before being bundled up and given to the pigs. It was an irony that Ianto respected – a circle of life. The pigs were slaughtered for human consumption, and now here was the human flesh, being offered back to the meaty animals. And Ianto was sitting there now, his hands lying on the armrests as he stared at John with those blue eyes, now looking beady and dangerous under the lighting. He was staring at John with a look of primal hunger – the same face you would see on a lion before it pounced on its unsuspecting prey. The restraint that John had always seen in the young man's eyes was gone, the only thing left was that hunger. The need to kill. It was raw and powerful and it scared him.

They remained there – one sitting, one standing - facing each other. John with his gun – now being held in both hands – pointed directly between those two torturous blue eyes. Ianto in the chair, no weapon to speak of, just staring at John, showing no fear at all. It was obvious who was in control.

"Why are you here?" Ianto asked, shifting a bit in the metal chair to find a more comfortable position. He made a mental note to find a more suitable chair for next month – didn't want his victims to have crick in their neck for their last moments.

"To stop you." John said with conviction in his voice. His gun didn't waver – nor did his eyes.

Ianto rolled eyes and brought his right hand up to his head, using his fingers to give his forehead a mini massage. "I need you to be a little more _specific_ detective!" His voice rose, and a hint of anger seeped out.

John tried not to flinch.

"Are you here to stop a serial killer, or Ianto Jones?" the Welshman asked, his voice back in check. His hand fell back to the armrest of the metal chair, where his fingers started to tap lightly. One tap per second.

"From where I'm standing, they're the same." John said, cocking the gun as a period to his sentence.

"No, they really aren't. See – if you were here to stop a serial killer, there would be police behind you with guns and handcuffs and evidence. Where are your handcuffs, Mr. Hart?"

The fact that Ianto was calling John by his last name with the formality in place frightened him more than if he had just used his first name. Ianto saw that – the little shift that passed through his eyes.

"Jack -"

"Don't you dare bring Jack into this!" John yelled. He shifted his gun a hair to the left and squeezed the trigger, the bullet grazing past Ianto's head and imbedding itself into the wall behind him.

Ianto didn't even blink.

"You brought him into this when you gave him my file." Ianto retorted. His voice was level and calm, but all the more frightening for it. Ianto sat there in that metal chair, his back ramrod straight, his eyes cool and calculating.

"Jack deserves to know the truth! He deserves so much better than this!" John was screaming now, waving his gun around like it was a prop in a play. He needed to defend Jack from this creature that sat in front of him. He needed to pay him back for all those nights of fighting and all the emotional hurt that John had put Jack through. He needed to prove that he loved him.

"You are what he deserves? A druggie with relationship issues?" Ianto said, as calmly as one might state that the sky was quite cloudy that day. No hint of emotion – a cold metal robot that was just pointing out the facts.

"At least I can love him." Ianto froze with those words, rigid in his chair. John couldn't help the smile that grew on his face, and he lowered his gun. He had hit a nerve on the serial killer. John didn't stop. "At least I can give him what he needs without having to lie. You're a monster, Ianto Jones. A shell – a waxwork dummy pretending to have emotion and feelings. You're fake, and what you and Jack have is fake – our relationship may have been shit, but at least it was real!"

"Did he ever tell you he loved you, detective?" Now it was Ianto's turn to cause John to fall silent. "Did Jack ever hold you at night? Just hold you until you fell asleep? Did he ever ask you how your day was, or kiss you just for the hell of it?"

"He cared about me." John's voice was low, the force of his voice more for his persuasion that Ianto's.

"That's not what I asked!" Ianto's hand curled into a fist and he slammed it onto the arm of the chair. Anger flared in his eyes. He was getting tired of these words being passed back and forth. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, attempting to reign himself back under control. It worked, but only barely. The raw anger and power that made Ianto who he was boiled just below the surface, needing only a single trigger to be released again. "Because, he does all those things for me."

"But you don't do those things for him, do you? What – is Jack just a toy for you? Playing happy families until you decide that he's used up his worth, am I right, eye-candy? What happens when you get that urge to kill, and the only person available to you is Jack fucking Harkness. What then?" John was close to hysterics now. Shouting, arms still waving uselessly in the air. His face was becoming red from anger, and his eyes were turning dangerous.

"I would never hurt Jack. This 'urge' as you put it, doesn't control me." Ianto said, although it wasn't always true. He had run out on Jack many nights, because he had felt that urge to do something horrible to the man. When they started spending the night with each other, Ianto had woken up many a time to find his hand had unconsciously moved to rest on Jack's throat. It had scared him, and for a little while he had thought about leaving Jack. Because, for whatever strange reason, he was the only person that Ianto had ever met that was worth too much to kill. Worth fighting for, worth controlling himself for, and living with the pain of having someone so close, but not being able to touch them in the way he wanted too. Relationships were all about sacrifice.

"Really? That makes one of you who has some sort of physical control." John visibly relaxed, a smirk falling back onto his smug little face, and Ianto frowned. He wasn't supposed to react like that – he was supposed to get angrier, more emotional. An emotional victim was liable to lash out and allow his feelings to control him.

"What does that mean?" Ianto said coolly, his fingers starting to twitch, tapping on the armrest again. He counted louder in his head, using the numbers to calm him down. He needed to wait just a little longer.

"Oh? Jack didn't tell you? Sounds like he loves you so much. It's just I didn't think that Jack would have continued to fuck me with so much enthusiasm if he really did love you." John was all smiles now, his arms crossed and stance confident.

But John's confidence was misplaced, because he had said the exact wrong thing. As soon as Ianto's brain had processed the fact that Jack had cheated on him – with John Hart of all people – he couldn't hold on anymore. That broken part of him inside reared up and he let it come without a fight.

All his pent up rage came out in a snarl and launched himself from the chair. John, caught by surprise, was unable to level his weapon again in time to get off a shot. Ianto hit him in the stomach and his gun went clattering to the floor.

They both hit the ground, Ianto on top of John, not wasting any time. Ianto lost count of the seconds – the numbers in his head a jumbled mess. He didn't need order any more; had no reason to stay in control. He wasn't able to stop himself from cutting off John's air supply, pressing harder and harder on his throat. The man underneath of him struggled with all his strength, but Ianto held on, squeezing tighter.

John kicked and punched, his hand connecting with Ianto's face several times. Each moment that his knuckles came in contact with Ianto's face, the hands around his neck loosened slightly. Finally finding an opening, John pulled his legs under Ianto's body and kicked.

The Welshman was pushed off John's body and landed on the floor with enough impact to knock the breath from him. Both of them scrambled to their feet, John lunging after his gun. Ianto got to him before he could and pulled him by his hair, twisting his face towards him. Ianto punched John in the stomach once, twice, three times before throwing him to the ground.

John couldn't focus on anything other than getting to his gun. Ianto was a lot stronger than he looked – and that was an understatement. The clothes the man wore gave people the impression that he was a tall but skinny man, with minimal muscle mass. But John had felt the strength and pure power in him as the serial killer had attempted to choke him, and knew he was no match for the man. He gasped for air, every breath making the fire in his throat grow ten-fold. There were black dots dancing around in his vision, and he felt like he was going to throw-up any minute. Still, he crawled for his gun. It was just out of reach, and if he could get just a little closer...

Ianto came at him again, kicking at him. John cried out as he felt one of his ribs crack, and choked as the oxygen that he dearly needed made his body feel like it was burning from the inside. He looked up, and saw the pure evil that was burning behind those blue eyes, and John knew that he wasn't going to survive. He knew that Ianto was going to kill him, then dispose of his body. He would probably go home to Jack and smile; hold Jack when the police find that he is, missing, presumed dead. Ianto would carry on like nothing had happened, and John knew that he wouldn't loose a wink of sleep over him.

Head pounding, throat and chest on fire, and near to the brink of death, John breathed out three words. "I'm sorry, Jack."

Ianto froze as those words hit his ears. He took a step back, his hands shaking badly. He cried inside his head as those words assaulted him. He felt himself start to loose control, and he grabbed desperately inside of his pocket, clawing for his stopwatch. He mentally grasped at numbers, trying to find something to anchor himself to, but he couldn't.

Little Ifan cried as he curled up on the floor. The rug was harsh on his skin. He breathed in, but his breath was ragged and burned on its way down. Ifan could hardly move – he was unable to turn his head in time to stop the bile that rose up and gurgled out of his lips. He was sick on the floor, and could do nothing but lay in it, the vomit assaulting his senses. Hot tears streaked down his face and mixed with the throw up on the floor, in his clothes, coating his skin.

_He blinked and looked up, seeing his father standing there, a disgusted look on his face. Ifan tried to move – tried to stand up. He knew he needed to clean up – get some cream onto his neck if he didn't want the bruises that would surely be there in the morning to be too noticeable. But he physically couldn't move._

_His father gave him one last look – full of hatred and disappointment and disgust. "You're a monster, Ifan. You're a monster and you will never be anything more! Sometimes I think I should kill you, but then that would be mercy, and creatures like you don't deserve mercy!"_

_Ifan whimpered as he watched his father turn and stalk out of the room – more than likely to go and get more drunk. He was able to form only three small words before he allowed his mind to succumb to the darkness._

"_I'm sorry, Tad."_

Ianto blinked, his shaking hands holding the stopwatch so hard that he could feel the dull metal trying to cut into his hand. He felt something wet and warm fall down his face, and he knew he was crying. His whole body shook, and he opened his mouth only to let out a sob.

The thing that hit him was blurry and unfocused – Ianto felt the stopwatch being wrenched out of his grip and heard it as it clattered to the floor. He didn't fight back as John drove him into the wall, his skull pounding against the painted brick with a bone splitting _crack_. His tears continued to fall as he felt hands wrap around his neck and start to squeeze. He tried to focus on the face that loomed in front of him, but he couldn't. He couldn't think, he couldn't move, all he could see was that look of disgust and contempt on his father's face that night, those three words spinning in his head over and over. Ianto tried to draw a breath, but he couldn't – the hands on his throat were too strong. Feebly, he brought his hands up to scratch at John's arms, but they had no effect. Hot breath on his face, a burn in his throat, and the whimper of a broken little boy in his mind.

Something shimmered in the corner of his eye, and Ianto's brain suddenly focused. The world was brought back into focus so fast that he would have thrown up if it wasn't for the hands that were slowly killing him. It was the stopwatch that had caught his eye, lying there, only a few feet away, calling to him, offering him salvation. Ianto strained, trying to see the numbers on the watch, trying to read the hands.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

There. He had the position of the numbers memorized, and he could just make out where the minutes hand was. He saw the slender second hand ticking away, and Ianto did what he did best – count.

Twenty seconds. He had twenty seconds.

His eyes shifted back to John, his gaze cutting deep into the detective's eyes. The other man must have recognized something, because his hands slacked just a little. Ianto's hands shot up and gripped John's wrists like two iron shackles. John's eyes widened and he gave up on strangling Ianto, instead attemptinh to pull away. Then Ianto did something completely and horribly evil – so dark and threatening that it instantly struck fear into John's heart. The kind of fear that would bring one nightmares whenever they closed their eyes.

Ianto Jones smiled.

He peeled John's hands off his throat as easily as he could peel a skin off of a banana. Then he held John's hands off to the sides for exactly a second, the smile still plastered onto his face. Ianto pushed his head back against the bricks, then slammed it forward, head-butting John.

Twelve seconds.

The detective let out a strangled cry and stumbled backwards and Ianto let go of his wrists. The serial killer straightened up and brushed his fingers over his neck, breathing in a large gulp of fresh air. It burned, but the pain only fueled his rage.

He walked up to John, who was doubled over, grasping his head in pain. Ianto grabbed the man and sucker punched him before throwing him backwards and onto the ground. Right next to his gun.

Seven seconds.

Ianto, his mind sharp but his body exhausted, stumbled forwards to grab at John again. The detective, in one last act of defiance, lashed out and caught Ianto's kneecap with his boot. Letting out a small cry, Ianto fell backwards, his right leg giving way from under him. He reached behind to steady himself, and his hands came in contact with the cool metal of the chair. He fell back into it.

Three seconds.

John scrambled for his gun and stood up. His exhausted body couldn't stand fully upright and he was swaying on his feet. There was a small river of blood that was leaking from his hairline, and his lips were bloody. His one hand clutched at his stomach, while the other held the gun in a death grip.

Two seconds.

John gave a bloody grin, taking careful aim right between Ianto's eyes. The Welshman held no fear in his eyes, and the smile grew back onto his face. He wanted it to be the last thing that John saw of him; his smile.

One.

A shot rang out.

* * *

**Review?**


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Wow. Can't believe that this is it. Special thank you to all of you who have stalked this silently, and reviewed, you guys have been amazing, and I always enjoy seeing my inbox full with reviews. Before you ask, there is going to definitely be one more installation, a oneshot that is set before both this and "A Day In The Life" which follows Jack, going more in detail of Jack and John's relationship, as well as Jack meeting Ianto Jones for the first time. Don't know about a prequel due to my school and new busy schedule, but I will try hard. No promises though.**

**Special thanks to Jooles, my wonderful beta, and Laisy, who provided artwork. Also, if anyone is interested, I have created a PDF version of this available for download. Just ask and I'll direct you to it.**

**And so, for the last time with this installation - please enjoy!**

* * *

She pulled the cop car onto the mud in front of the warehouse and jumped out, the key still in the ignition and the engine still running – she didn't care. The others were following her close behind, but not close enough. They weren't on her heels – a few feet back. Following her, but not joining her. She felt like she was all alone in these few seconds, everything oh so very loud and distracting. The way her hair whipped angrily in her face as she ran. The sound of her boots as they squelched in the mud, then cracked on the gravel and small rocks underfoot. The rustling of clothes as the too few police officers advanced behind her. The loudest sound of them all was her heart, pounding in her chest.

She saw the two cars out of the corner of her eye as she ran. She recognized them both instantly – John Hart's beat-up old car, the red paint peeling, the shiniest piece of metal being the GPS tracker hidden under the car. Then there was Ianto's, dark blue paint without a chip in sight, sparkling with perfection under the moonlight. The sight brought a shot of fear, and with it adrenaline. But it wasn't fear for herself that drove her.

Gwen's hand was already on the butt of her gun as she approached the door, drawing the deadly piece of metal as she burst through the door. Her arms outstretched, her finger gently ghosting over the trigger, ready to shoot.

Then everything fell quiet.

The noises that had assaulted her were suddenly silenced – not because they stopped, but because the sight in front of her was enough to block everything from her mind. Time seemed to slow down around her. Her breaths became long and shallow, her eyelids felt heavy as she blinked, her legs like lead. Only her trigger finger remained light and agile.

John Hart stood in front of her, only a few yards away. His gun was trailed on someone who was sitting in a metal chair. Gwen's heart skipped a beat – it was Ianto. Her mind didn't see the blood dripping from John's chin, or the almost smug look that showed on Ianto's face. All her eyes were able to focus on was John's trigger finger, as it slowly started to squeeze.

A shot rang out.

The loud bang of her weapon brought back all her senses, sounds filled the air and time rushed forward, hitting her like a brick wall. She stumbled back half a step as the rest of the police offers rushed past her, their guns out even though the target had been neutralized.

John Hart had been dead before he hit the ground.

Gwen stood still, unable to look away, unable to move. Her breath shaky as she stared at what she had done – the man she had killed. He lay there, on the cold concrete floor of this forsaken warehouse. Even from her distance, Gwen could see that his eyes were still open, glazed over. Blood was gushing from his temple where she had shot him. The bullet hole was on the side of his head, right behind his eyes. She couldn't bring herself to imagine what the other side of his head looked like. The blood was pooling onto the floor, soaking John's hair and skin, seeping into his clothing; the remainder of his life – a whisper of what he had been – draining onto the floor, warm and sticky. Leaking, not gushing. Gushing would have meant his heart was still beating.

Gwen felt sick. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. The scene in front of her was too familiar. For a moment she blinked, and it wasn't John Hart lying on the floor anymore. It was Jack. Her Jack; his entire right side covered with his own blood, his screams echoing throughout the hollow room as his life slowly left him, seeping from the numerous shotgun pellet wounds that marred him. She had been frozen then too, unable to do anything but hold her partner in her red, sticky arms and rock him; holding him way too tight, whispering that everything was going to be ok, knowing that it wasn't. It had been the only time that Gwen had ever frozen. Ever felt so helpless.

Until now.

She blinked, and John was once more the one lying on the floor, dead. She breathed, and this time when she blinked, her eyes turned hard. Gwen couldn't fall apart now – she couldn't fold inward. So she distanced her mind – forced herself to move, to walk, to talk. There was a radio in her hand. She didn't remember reaching for it, but she knew she had. She brought it up to her numb lips, and called for an ambulance and a body bag. Her voice sounded strange, surreal, even though she knew it was her who was talking.

And then she was moving, past John's cooling body. Past the police officers who were cordoning off the scene and protecting the corpse. One talked to her, his words slow and incomprehensible. She brushed him off and kept walking. Then she was standing next to Ianto, her hand reaching out to him. He flinched and she pulled back. Her voice was soothing as she spoke, coaxing him, trying to find out if he was hurt. Telling him it would be ok. She felt like she wasn't inside her body anymore – like she was an invisible bystander who was watching a woman who looked like her and talked like her do her job. But Gwen couldn't stop and think about that for too long, because it wasn't her time to be weak. It was her time to get the job done.

The ambulance got there – Gwen didn't know what had happened to the ten minutes between her calling it in and the crew arriving. She stood back and let the paramedics do their job, easing Ianto onto a stretcher and looking him over for injuries. Something was wrong with his knee – there were imprints of fingers around his throat. Gwen's mind made the connection, but she stuffed it into the recesses of her brain. She couldn't face that. Not yet.

She watched as Ianto acted as distant as she felt. She turned away and was assaulted by the sight of John's body being carefully packed into a body bag, picked up and carried outside. She followed, rattling off instructions the whole time. Talking. Moving. Doing her job.

Ianto was sitting in the back of the ambulance now, the paramedics continuing their job of looking him over thoroughly, preventing him from going into shock. They spoke to him, their tones low and soothing.

John's body was lowered onto the stretcher that Ianto had been on before. Gwen watched with detachment as the large black back was sat there. Nothing moved underneath. She wanted more than anything to find out that she was sleeping; her brain simply conjuring up her worst nightmare. She wanted to wake up and go into work and see Jack's smile and hear Ianto's quite conversations and feel pissed at John. Living, breathing, non-homicidal John. But Gwen knew. She knew she was never going to wake up.

Another car was pulling onto the warehouse property now. It was a large, black SUV that Gwen immediately recognized. She watched with despair as Jack climbed out, his eyes wide in the night. He half ran, half stumbled over to her, and Gwen found that she was reaching out, grabbing onto him. Stopping him. She was yelling at him to calm down. 'Ianto's all right' she said, knowing that he needed to be in control when he approached him. She caught Ianto in the corner of her eye and turned her head slightly to get a better look. He was staring at Jack with a haunted look in his eyes, and she let her best friend go. He ran to Ianto, and they embraced. She watched as Ianto's eyes closed, his hands gripping his partner's coat pulling him closer. They stayed like that until the paramedics asked Jack to leave – to back away, to let go. They weren't finished. The man wasn't going to listen.

Gwen walked over, still not inside herself, still watching from the outside. She watched as her hand grasped Jack's arm and tugged him away. She was prepared for a fight, but he didn't give one. He released Ianto's hand slowly, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to break the connection.

Then Jack looked at her, asking her a question. 'John.' he said. 'Where's John?'

Inside, Gwen screamed. She screamed and cried and cursed and bellowed. Outside though, she couldn't do it. She couldn't say what had happened. Instead, her eyes flickered quickly to the black body bag. The lump of flesh that was lying so still, so frozen, on the stretcher.

Gwen Cooper watched as something inside Jack Harkness shattered.

He didn't run to the body like he had with Ianto. Instead, he walked slowly, reluctantly. Like he didn't want to face the truth of what was inside the black bag. He reached the stretcher and slowly – so painfully slowly - he reached out, and with shaking hands he pulled back the zipper, revealing what was inside.

Jack did something horrible then. Something that would have caused anyone else to have been immediately swarmed by police, restrained and most probably dragged into the back of a police car. But no-one advanced on him, no-one threatened him, no-one stopped him. Not even Gwen.

She watched as his hands disappeared into the bag as he wound his arms around the cold, dead flesh of his ex-lover. Jack pulled John's body towards him, and buried his face in John's hair, getting blood all over his clothes and skin. A sob wracked his frame, and Gwen watched as Jack's legs gave way from under him.

In a surreal, almost slow-motion move, Jack sunk to the ground, pulling the body of Detective John Hart with him. He hit the ground and cradled John's body, pulling it as close to him as he could, then trying to get closer. Jack's warm lips brushed John's cold dead ones and he started to rock back and forth, outwardly sobbing and crying. His face once again buried itself into John's hair. The sound that Jack was making was so full of pain and despair and hurt that it was instantly imprinted into Gwen's mind. It was a sound that she knew she would be having nightmares about for months.

Gwen glanced over at Ianto, and saw that he was staring intently at Jack, pain in his eyes that had nothing to do with his injuries. She watched as a single tear rolled down his cheek, disappearing as it followed the curve of his throat.

She found herself walking forward, sinking to the ground, wrapping her arms around Jack, holding tight. She felt her skin came in contact with John's, and a shiver coursed through her body. She didn't pull away though.

She sat there, holding Jack, muttering into his ear. "It's going to be ok," she said, over and over and over again. And just like before, she knew that every word she spoke was a lie.

**-xXx-**

He was numb.

Jack sat in the police station, in the chair where the family always sat. The constables and detectives always talked about that chair – it was something of a hot topic. A new person always meant a new case, a new victim – always meant that there was someone in the interrogation room being questioned. The chair sat there for family members, loved ones. The person who drew the short straw and had to wait for whover was being questioned by the police. Anyone who sat in the chair wasn't calm, or collected. They were always pale, distraught, worried. Sometimes they were even broken.

Jack Harkness was broken.

He sat in that chair now, leaning forward, a cup of cold and forgotten coffee balanced dangerously between his two hands, which cradled the Styrofoam like an egg. His head was down, blue eyes staring into the murky brown liquid like it held the answers that he wanted.

Police officers walked by him, the night shift giving way to those luckier officers who drew the morning hours. They whispered about him, thinking he didn't hear them, but he did. He heard every single word that they spoke, their hushed tones no match for his ears. It had only been a few hours, but the news had already circulated. The news about the hired detective, John Hart, and how he was dead. Caught in the act, they all said as they walked by, warm coffee in their hands and gossip on their lips. He's the serial killer that had been terrorizing them for the past month. He was working his own case. They went on and on about how clever it was, and how only a twisted son-of-a-bitch like that could ever think of such a thing. They never spoke about how they had drinks with John one night, or traded words with him several days earlier at the front desk. Then they would see Jack sitting in _The Chair_, and the whispers would dip lower, to where he couldn't hear. But he knew what they were saying. He knew they would be talking about the criminal psychologist who had a breakdown at the crime scene, contaminating the body by getting his grimy hands all over it.

They never noticed the blood that stained his clothes, or the vacant look in his eyes.

When Jack had arrived, he had gone straight to the bathroom, where he had thrown up until his stomach was empty, and he was left just spitting up bile. Then he'd washed his hands and face, getting rid of as much of John's life blood as he could. Scrubbing away the man as much as he could at that moment. He needed a shower – needed to take soap and wash until his skin turned raw, and then wash some more.

He needed Ianto.

But his Welshman was being debriefed at the moment. Taken care of. So Jack waited.

His mind went to places that he didn't want to go. Every time he closed his eyes he saw John's face loom in front of him, a smirk dancing on his lips, or the laughter lines that surrounded his eyes. Every time he breathed Jack tasted John, felt him. Wanted him. But he couldn't have him anymore. John was dead.

The thought sent shivers through Jack, and he curled up tighter. He had enough wits about him to set his coffee cup down before drawing his thick coat around him like a cocoon to block out everything else. His leg and side and arm hurt like hell, and every time he moved it felt like his mangled flesh was on fire. It burned like the day he got shot. The psychologist in Jack knew that it was mental pain – that his skin had long ago healed. But the rest of him felt the pain, and acknowledged it as real. As real as the loss he was feeling now.

Ianto was the love of Jack's life. That much he knew for certain. Was and always would be, until he died. Maybe even after that. Jack didn't know if he would have been able to go on if it had been Ianto in the body bag and John in the ambulance. Jack didn't think he had it in him to continue breathing – living, if Ianto was gone. He was his life, his breath, his everything.

But John, John had been something else entirely. John had been the only thing in Jack's life that was constant. A rock that would never move, never change. Just continue to exist. Jack would have nightmares, sometimes, of Ianto dying – Gwen, even. Something would go horribly wrong, and suddenly they wouldn't be there anymore. Those dreams caused him to worry, to care even more than he already did. Because life was so damn short, even shorter when you were trying to share it with someone. But he never dreamt of John dying. He never thought about what would happen when the man was no longer there. Because in Jack's mind, John had always been there. Always been there and always would. He didn't have to worry about rushing into things, or trying to say certain words because it might one day be too late. With John, things were simple. No matter how many times they fought or walked away from each other, John would always be there, waiting for him. Jack never fought for John. Never worried about loosing him, about saying the wrong thing. Because he didn't have to.

And now he was gone.

The worst part about the whole thing, was that it took the man dying for Jack to realize exactly how much of an impact he'd had on his life.

Jack took an unsteady breath, and leaned back, running his hand through his hair, ignoring the blood on his sleeves. It was a little past six in the morning, but felt like The middle of the night.

The door to his right opened, and Detective Cooper walked out.

Jack stumbled to his feet, all thoughts of John instantly overridden by his worry for Ianto. "Is he ok? Is Ianto alright?"

Gwen, her mouth in a firm line, waitied until Jack was finished to speak. "Physically, he's lucky. Dislocated kneecap, bruising around the neck, along with a few more bruises on his stomach. He fought back pretty hard. As for mentally, I don't know."

She paused then, to run her hand through her hair and gather her thoughts. Jack took a good look at her in that moment of silence, and realized that she probably looked as bad as he did, if not just slightly better. There were bags under her eyes and a haunted look in her brown orbs. She was suffering. They all were.

"Ianto's coping mechanism is something normally seen in children and young adults that have experienced severe beatings – they just retreat into themselves. Ianto's basically done the same thing. He answers my questions with short, precise answers. The only time he said anything unrelated to a question or that wasn't simple fact, was to ask where you were – if you were ok." Gwen said, stuffing her hands into her jacket.

"What about…" Jack asked, drifting off, unable to finish the sentence. He didn't need to, Gwen knew exactly what he was trying to ask.

"We sent police to John's apartment – what we found, paired with what Ianto told us…" It was her turn to stop mid-sentence.

Jack screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, shaking his head. "No." he whispered. "No – I won't believe it – I can't! He…John…no." Jack shook, his voice unsteady and full with emotion. He would have cried, but he didn't have enough tears left in his body anymore.

"I'm sorry Jack." Gwen said, stepping forward, trying to hug him. He pulled away.

"Ianto?" he asked, his voice suddenly turning cold. He wouldn't believe it – he couldn't. And yet, somewhere, deep down, Jack knew that what Gwen had said was true. He thought back on the past month, and little things started to align. John not telling anyone where he had been the night that Huw had been murdered. How arrogant he had been at the crime scene. His last actions. Hell, why he took the case to begin with. It all made perfect sense.

"He's free to go." Gwen said softly. "The paramedics wanted him to spend the night in the hospital after being debriefed, but I talked them into letting him go home. He needs you now, Jack."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream and throw a fit and yell. He wanted to deny everything and curl up into a ball and cry until he couldn't breathe anymore. But he couldn't. Jack couldn't loose control like that, because it wasn't all about him. Ianto needed him, and he needed Ianto. So instead, Jack just nodded. "Just – I need to talk to Chief first."

Gwen gave a tight smile, fighting back a yawn. "He just arrived – should be in his office."

Jack gave a nod of thanks and then limped off. His foot felt like it was on fire the whole way down, every step filled with agonizing pain. But he didn't give up. He continued to walk.

He entered the Chief's office without knocking, barely even glancing at the man. The Chief looked up at Jack, an expression of genuine worry on his face. Jack didn't bother to register it. He was tired of the looks of pity and worry he had been getting that night. Tired of the 'poor boy' attitudes that the other police officers had so obviously been sending his way. He was tired of it all.

"I just wanted to come and tell you that I won't be available as a consult for the police anymore." Jack said, his hands deep in his pockets, pressed tight against his sides to stop them from shaking.

The Chief just sat his pen down on his desk and looked at Jack with a gaze that demanded to be met. Tiredly, Jack raised his eyes. "No."

Surprised, Jack just stared at the Chief.

"I know that you are hurting right now Jack. And that you feel broken and cheated. But I am not letting my best consultant just walk away because a case went south."

"Went south?" Jack yelled, his emotions and grief spilling out of him in the form of anger. "My ex turned out to be a fucking serial killer, who tried to kill the love of my life! An ex who blindsided me for years!" He was shaking freely now, his voice hoarse, his body unable to take the punishment he was forcing on it. But Jack couldn't stop now. "I lived five years of my fucking life with this man, and it turned out he was killing behind my back! I was fooled, Chief. I failed! Failed to do the only thing that I'm good at. I read people for a living – how the hell am I supposed to be able to read strangers when I couldn't even see the truth in a man that I lived with?"

"You weren't the only one that was fooled, Jack." The Chief said, his voice still level, still in control.

The words cut through Jack, severing his last ounce of control. "I loved him! I loved him and the man that I loved is a lie! I fell for the one fucking thing in this world that I am supposed to be able to see! So don't you dare sit there and tell me you understand, that I'm not alone, because I am. I am one hundred perfect alone right now!"

"What about Ianto?" Chief asked, shutting Jack up. He paused for a moment, before, realizing Jack was finished with his tirade, and continuing "You are many things, Jack Harkness, but you are not alone. Ianto out there, he's real, and more importantly, he needs you right now. So I am going to give you two months. Two months to pull your shit together and to make things right again. That means in exactly two months from today, you are going to walk into this building, knock on my door, enter, and pick up the file I am going to have waiting for you, you understand? And if on that day you don't come, I am going to personally march up to your door, knock it down, and drag you back to this police station. Am. I. Clear?"

It felt like an eternity before Jack spoke. And when he did, he said just two simple words. "Yes, sir."

**-xXx-**

It was a normal day for Cardiff, in terms of weather. There were heavy clouds overhead, promising rain, but too lazy to deliver it right now. People who were walking around had their trusty umbrellas by their sides, not letting the possibility of downpour ruin their plans for the day. Because for them, it was a time not only to be out and about, but to celebrate. The Cardiff serial killer had been caught red-handed – and better yet, killed. It was official that the streets were safe again, and everyone was rejoicing at their city once more being safe.

There were three people that day, however, that were nowhere near rejoicing.

They stood together off to the side of a freshly dug grave. This grave was near the back of a small cemetery, so new that the headstone hadn't even been placed at the head yet. The only sign that someone had actually been buried was the freshly upturned earth. The man who had been buried barely had any friends – in fact, it could be said that he had none at all. There hadn't been a funeral, Just a priest doing what he needed to do to inter the body to the ground.. He had been placed in his coffin as soon as his body had been released from the Cardiff police, and buried six feet under, where he would stay until his body rotted through the wood and became no different than the ground that would eternally be his keeper.

"He always wanted to be cremated." Jack said, standing off to the side of the grave. He was dressed in all black, his large waterproof coat even the dark and dreary colour. It was zipped all the way up to his collarbone, the collar of the coat upturned, protecting his neck from the weather. His eyes were red and swollen, proof of crying, lack of sleep, or both. In one hand he held a cane, which he leaned heavily on. The other held his boyfriend's hand in a death grip, using him for support as much as his cane. "Said he wanted to arrive at hell in style. Make an impression."

Ianto Jones was also dressed in all black, the only difference being his floor-length coat was unzipped and fluttered around a bit in the wind. His hands were gloved, and while his one was being hogged by Jack, his other was gripping a cane not unlike the one his counterpart was using. It was almost a mirror image – Jack needing his cane to support his leg, which these past two days hadn't stopped hurting, and Ianto needing his cane to keep pressure off of his kneecap, which had been dislocated five nights earlier during a particularly brutal battle in a warehouse. The bruises on his neck were still bright and vivid in their colours of blue, black, brown and purple; still clearly defined as finger marks, betraying how he had got them. He said nothing, there only to provide his lover with support.

Gwen stood slightly behind the two, herself in all black as well. She came to the funeral not only for Jack's sake, but also for her own. Ever since she had been issued a gun and made to use it, she had made it a rule of hers to always go to the grave sight of those she had killed. It was one of the only ways that she was able to stay sane in a job like hers. She had killed more people that she was ok with admitting, but she always visited their resting places on the anniversary of their deaths, just to remind herself why she did what she did. To keep herself human. Gwen hated John Hart. She hated what he had done to Jack, how negatively he had impacted on the man at such a venerable time of his life. She had cursed at him, yelled at him, plotted his demise. But she knew that, deep down, his death would be the one that would keep her up at night.

So she stood there with her best friend, worried about his mental health, and the well-being of his boyfriend. Ianto had been the one who was almost murdered by John. She didn't like that he was there, and had told him as much as soon as they had arrived at the grave side. But Ianto had just taken Jack's hand and told her with his eyes that Jack needed him there, so he would be there for him. It didn't matter to the man at the moment that it could have been him in that coffin; that Jack's tears could have been shed for him.

Gwen knew that if she had to go back and do everything again, she still would have pulled that trigger and aimed for John's head. It didn't make facing it any easier, but a small part of her knew she had done the right thing. A small part of her knew that if it had been Ianto's body lying in that black bag, Jack never would have gotten up off that ground. He never would have let go of the corpse and gotten in the car. He would have died that night along with his lover, and this time no amount of loving and caring could have fixed it.

She stepped forward and put a hand on Jack's shoulder. She felt him flinch a bit at the sudden contact, then relax and lean into her touch. She came up beside him, her feet level with his as they stared at the upturned soil. Gwen knew what the headstone would say – it wouldn't even have John's full name on it, in case someone visiting a grave nearby would see his name and connect it to the John Hart who was a serial killer in Cardiff.

"They gave me the will, after looking through it." Gwen said softly. Jack's head turned just a fraction of an inch, so she knew he had heard her. Taking a breath, she dove back in. "It didn't take long to go through it. Just five words. Thought you would want it."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of legal paper. She offered it to Jack, and for a second she thought he wasn't going to take it. But then his hand let go of Ianto's and gently took the paper, opening it and reading the five small words on the paper.

'Jack Harkness gets it all.'

Gwen watched as he stared at the paper, unmoving for several minutes. She glanced at Ianto and caught his eye, and silently asked him if she could have a few moments with Jack. The Welshman understood her plea, for a second later he told Jack that he was going to go and warm up the car, and not to take much longer. Jack barely nodded as he left.

Gwen waited until Ianto was a few yards away to take his place, slipping her hand around Jack's arm and offering herself as support. Jack sagged onto her.

"I don't believe it Gwen. I can't." Jack said then, his head turning to meet hers, glancing away from the grave for the first time since it came into view. "I knew him for so long – he couldn't have."

Gwen stayed silent for several heartbeats, trying to find the right words to say. In the end, she realized that there were none. "Sometimes, people….they just….something happens, and they….break."

Jack closed his eyes, and for a moment Gwen was scared she had said the wrong thing. Then he opened them again, and when he spoke, he sounded a little better. "I'm leaving in a week – Ianto and I are running away. Recovering. Chief gave me two months."

Gwen smiled at this, genuinely happy. She knew that Jack never would have gotten over what had happened by staying in Cardiff, surrounded by reminders. "Good, Jack, you need that. You and Ianto both."

She turned and saw the Welshman sitting in the car, staring at them, ever vigilant, waiting for Jack. She returned her attention to her friend. "Jack, I know you are hurting right now, and I understand. But you can't forget that Ianto is hurting too. It's in his eyes, Jack." She paused. "It's why you are so perfect for each other. Ianto is being so strong for you Jack – he needs you to be strong for him. Together, I'm sure that you two will get past this."

She hugged him, and after a few moments, he returned the gesture.

"I don't want to hear a peep from you until you get back, you hear? But the moment you step foot back in Cardiff, if I don't get a phone call with promises of coffee and gossip, I swear I will hunt you down. Circle my calendar, I will."

She didn't get a smile, but there was a soft light that grew in his eyes. "Bye Gwen." he said softly.

"Bye love." she returned.

**-xXx-**

Ianto sat in the corner of their walk-in closet, his eyes closed as he felt the smooth black leather under his fingers. It had been a while since he had last touched this – a week to be exact. A week since he had replaced his little black book and purposefully left the edge of the carpet only slightly wrinkled. A week since he had sat in the warehouse, staring down the barrel of a .45 and putting his life on the line for the one thing in his life that he trusted absolutely – numbers. And they hadn't let him down either. Because now, John Hart was six feet under, and would forever be known as the Cardiff serial killer.

Ianto had wrapped everything up quite well, if he could think so himself. It hadn't taken Toshiko very long to find out that there was a breach in the Cardiff police mainframe, and it didn't take a genius to recover the file he had deleted – John Hart's file. It was really such a coincidence that the man's background and personality almost fit Jack's psych-eval of the serial killer to the T. And then there was the fact of John's apartment. After getting over the initial shock of discovery, and reigning back control of himself, Ianto had taken the time to set things up to his advantage. He removed any evidence on the walls that would leave to any kind of conviction on his behalf, then even went so far as to log onto John's laptop, type up a profile for himself – in the exact format as the resume he had left the police at Huw's crime scene – and printed it off. The police had found all of this after disabling the trip wire Ianto had set up right outside of John's bedroom. That information was more than enough to arrest John – him being dead and caught in the act of attempting to murder Ianto was just icing on the cake. Ianto's recalling of the events couldn't exactly be questioned, and all oddity of the fact that John wasn't sticking to the serial killer's MO was also tossed out the window due to emotional involvement. Ianto had cemented that fact by telling the police John had told him that the reason Ianto was going to be killed was because he was stealing Jack away. The perfect cover-up.

Ianto smiled only fractionally, allowing his true feelings to barely slip through a crack in his façade. His fingers trailed down the spine slowly, sensuously caressing the leather. His finger followed the edge of the cover, until finally he hooked his nail tips around the edge and pulled it, gently flipping to the first page. He went through the book, reaching the last page written on in exactly five seconds. There he hesitated, his eyes running over the numbers, digesting the data. He got to the bottom of the page, where the last number had been written in. He glanced to the left, where a black ballpoint pen was sitting. The same pen that he always used to mark down his numbers. That way he would always know if someone was marking in his book. He picked up the pen and hovered it over the small blank line that was left under John Hart's name. What should he put? The last number was always how long it took for his hands to squeeze out their last breath – the duration of their last struggle. How much they wanted to hold onto life. He didn't have a number for John Hart, for it wasn't his hands that had done the final act. Ianto had set everything up perfectly, but in a way, he still felt cheated.

He sat the pen down in the crack of the book and brought his fingers up, gently drifting them over his throat. While the bruises remained, the burn that reminded Ianto how close he had come to a death of irony had long since faded. Ianto had been cheated that night. Even though he knew that, in order to stay hidden, he would have been unable to get John's blood – metaphorically speaking – on his hands, he still loathed it. Ianto had so much wanted to feel John struggle beneath him, gasping for that final breath. He wanted to watch as the person who had single-handedly done the most harm to Jack fade away and then simply cease to exist. Police Detective Gwen Cooper had taken that away from him.

Ianto reached forward and again picked up the pen, this time bringing the tip down onto the paper. Slowly, perfectly, he wrote in what he deemed appropriate. It was the fastest death that Ianto had ever caused, and would always hold that record. Even in death, John Hart was mocking him, showing Ianto that he would never be just another name in his book of conquests.

'0 seconds.'

He held the pen just a quarter of a second too long, making the period slightly bigger than any of the others in his book. Then he pulled away and capped the pen, reaching forward and sliding it back into its little hiding spot. And there it would stay until it was needed again.

Ianto stared at the page of numbers – stared at John Hart's name as it peered back at him. Ianto let all the thoughts that he had been fighting the past week enter his mind. The words that the detective had thrown at him. The man had loved Jack, truly loved him. Ianto had watched from the ambulance, barely registering their questions, not feeling their probing fingers. He hadn't even realized when they injected him with pain medication to help ease the discomfort of his kneecap. Because Ianto had been watching as Jack Harkness fell apart in front of him.

Something had happened inside Ianto then, watching Jack crumble, pull John's dead body tight against his and fall to the ground, sobbing and crying and grieving. There had been a tug in Ianto's heart and for exactly half a second, he found himself wishing that John hadn't been killed. That Gwen's bullet had only incapacitated him.

But it had only lasted half a second, and then the thought ran from his mind. Ianto had found himself reeling in shock from the wish. It had confused him to no end. He had known ahead of time what it would do to Jack, seeing his former lover dead. But it was either John or Ianto, and the Welshman knew exactly who wanted to live more.

Ianto took a deep breath, then turned the page, effectively closing off the chapter of his life that John Hart had been a part of. As he stared at the blank page, possibilities swarmed his mind, and he moved on.

A smile spread across his lips as Ianto's hand pet the page, knowing that soon enough it would be full with numbers. Satisfied, he closed the book and gently replaced it in its cubby, replacing the carpet and smoothing out the edges.

Ianto stood up from the floor, groaning a bit as he stretched. He hobbled out of the closet, his knee still sore. He no longer felt the need for Jack's cane, but still liked to use it when he was around. He knew it made Jack feel less vulnerable to share that small ting with him. Relying on the stick for a few days had been a good experience to have too.. Ianto was able to look at the world out of Jack's eyes, understand a bit why the man refused to use one when it was logical to do so.

Jack was sleeping in their bed as Ianto padded out of the closet and back into the bedroom. He no longer looked peaceful in his sleep. Even while resting, his eyes would screw up tight and his mouth would set itself into a permanent scowl. Ianto hadn't seen the man smile for the past week, and that in itself was a strange and unusual occurrence. The past seven days Ianto had to rely on his numbers more than ever to keep himself in check. To keep his world from crumbling even more than it already had.

Jack had fallen asleep with his head propped against the headboard of their bed. He was sitting up, a laptop open and resting on his legs, the slight hum of the machine letting everyone know that it was still on. Ianto undressed quickly, stripping down to only his underwear before crawling into bed, pulling up the covers and wiggling over next to Jack. Swiping his fingers on the mouse pad, Ianto woke the computer out of its slumber and took a look at what Jack had been working on. He frowned when he saw the result.

"Ianto?" Jack asked, his voice heavy with sleep as he awoke, stirring under the sheets. Ianto took the laptop from Jack and closed it, leaning over and setting it on the nightstand.

"You shouldn't be looking at that." Ianto said with worry tinting his voice. Jack had somehow got his hands on the electronic copy of the Cardiff serial killer case, including the closing statement and the psych evaluation made of John Hart by a psychologist other than Jack.

Jack sighed and ran his left hand through his hair, sinking down further under the sheets until he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Ianto sank down as well, adopting his normal position – his arm slung across Jack's waist, his head resting lightly on his chest, in just the right position to be able to hear his heart beat. Ianto loved Jack's heartbeat – it was one of the only things about the man that could be predicted and controlled. He could count the heartbeat; find rhythm and pattern behind it. Jack's heartbeat made sense.

"They're saying he was fake, Ianto." Jack whispered after three minutes and twenty seven seconds of silence. His voice sounded so strange – so weak and broken. "Saying that his whole life was a lie. His relationships and appearances were all fabricated so that he could continue living under the radar so he could…"

Jack drifted off, unable to finish the sentence. Ianto held onto Jack tighter, and felt the man shift closer in return. Jack could be so simple sometimes – the man craved touch, physical comfort. Sometimes all he needed was a gentle touch on the shoulder – other times he just yearned to be held tightly and told that everything was going to be ok.

"So long. I knew him so long. That's what I do – tell when people are faking. He…I…they can't tell me it wasn't real." Jack was crying now, silent tears falling down his face, speaking all the words he couldn't say. Ianto knew – he could tell when he saw the way that Jack reacted to John's death. The man loved him. Jack loved John. Maybe not the way that he said he loved Ianto, but there was a bond there, closer and more emotional than any normal one.

Jack had told him – about the cheating. It had been the night – or, more accurately, the morning – that they had come back from the police station, Ianto being allowed to leave because he had finished his statement. There had been barely any words exchanged between them, but none were needed, not at that time. Jack had held Ianto tightly, and the Welshman knew it was for Jack's benefit as much as it was for himself. They had been quiet for such a long time, Ianto drifting off to sleep, when Jack had said it. 'John and I' was all that Jack said, but it was all that had been needed. He had tensed around Ianto, as if scared that he would pull away and leave. Instead of remaining quite, like he normally would have done, Ianto had turned around and kissed Jack gently on the lips, before whispering an 'I know' then falling asleep.

Ianto could have stayed quiet then – and he could have stayed quiet now. It was the logical thing to do. It was what his brain was telling him to do – just stay quiet, kiss him goodnight, then go to sleep. Wounds take time to heal, no matter how deep or shallow.

But Ianto's heart was telling him to do something, and for the first time in his young life, Ianto Jones listened to his heart.

"Maybe. Maybe he had been faking so long, that one morning he woke up, and realized that he wasn't acting anymore." Ianto said, lifting his head up in order to look into Jack's eyes as he talked. Their eyes met in a clash of blue, and the intensity of Jack's gaze was so overwhelming that Ianto stumbled.

"That, what started out as just a cover – something to make him blend in, look like a normal person, ended up becoming the first real thing that he had ever had. He would have been dead so long ago if it wasn't for you, Jack Harkness, so full of life and love and care. You took him - someone so empty and fake, and by sheer humanity turned him into something _real._ An actual person. You weren't able to conquer the monster inside, but you were able to make it easier to battle.

"And when faced with a threat – with someone who was going to take you away from him. Take the only thing that ever meant something in his life and rip it away, leaving him to battle the darkness alone once again, he dealt with it the only way that he had ever known how." Ianto's voice cracked with emotion – it was like he was listening to someone else talk to Jack. It scared him, and for a moment he lost track of how many times Jack's heart had beat in the past minute.

But then Ianto looked at Jack and saw his smile, the slight upturn of lips and flash of those pearly white teeth. He saw what passed for happiness for the first time in a week, and Ianto suddenly realized that he couldn't care less about Jack's heartbeat.

Jack leaned forward and kissed Ianto softly on the lips before falling back, his head gently hitting the pillow. He pulled Ianto closer, interweaving their legs and arms so that no-one could tell where one man started and the other ended.

"I love you Ianto Jones." Jack whispered then. "So much."

Ianto returned the embrace, for the first time in his life finding comfort and safety in the arms of his warm lover instead of the cold calculations of numbers. And he wasn't sure whether or not that scared him.

It took Jack barely any time at all to fall asleep – Ianto didn't know how long, or how many breaths it took for him to settle down. He couldn't tell you how much Jack's heart beat had slowed down in time of seconds between beats, or how long he could last before having to shift positions. Because that whole time, Ianto was figuring something out. Calling upon all those little tugs and pulls he had felt over the past month and a half, slowly piecing it all together.

He wasn't sure how long it took him until everything clicked together, but when it did, he knew without a doubt that the answer he had stumbled upon was right.

"I love you." he whispered.

And Ianto meant every word.

* * *

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